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A'^TOR,    LF 

Gessjord  Studios 


[Born  1S36 — Died  igiS] 












;     ASTOJ^,  LENOX  AND 
I   H  1920  L 

Copyright,  1920,  by 

Published  October,  1020 

CONTENTS  tl^^^^ 


I.  Danskammer 3 

II.  New  York  When  I  Was  a  Boy 30 

III.  My  Brothers 57 

IV.  The  South  Before  the  War 72 

V.  At  College 88 

VI.  Travels  and  a  Shipwreck 103 

VII.  New  York  When  I  Was  a  Young  Man 125 

VIII.  Rome — Church  and  State 154 

IX.  Some  Roman  Friends 188 

X.  The  Campagna 215 

XI.  Venice 240 

XII.  Saint  Caudens  and  Others 258    V* 

XIII.  Some  Pleasant  Summers      288 

XIV.  The  Century  Club 303 

XV.  My  Farm  at  Danskammer      329 




"To  the  heart  of  youth  the  world  is  a  highway  side. 
Passing  forever  he  fares;    and  on  either  hand. 
Deep  in  the  gardens  the  golden  pavilions  hide, 

Nestle  in  orchard  bloom,  and  far  on  the  level  land 
Call  him  with  lighted  lamp  in  the  eventide." 

— Stevenson. 

I  was  born  on  the  15th  of  April,  1836,  at  Dans- 
kammer  on  the  Hudson,  near  Newburgh.  The  date  on 
the  house  at  Danskammer  is  1834,  so  I  have  always  as- 
sumed that  I  was  born  in  that  house,  although  at  the  time 
my  father,  Edward  Armstrong,  bought  the  place,  about 
1822,  there  was  an  old  house  near  the  edge  of  the  bank 
sloping  down  to  the  river,  a  rather  fine  colonial  building 
with  two  wings.  When  this  house  was  torn  down  to  make 
way  for  our  new  one,  one  of  the  wings  was  moved  back 
of  the  Danskammer  stable  and  used  for  many  years  as  a 
carpenter-shop;  the  walls  were  hard-finished  and  the  orna- 
mental ceiling  and  woodwork  bore  evidence  of  its  having 
been  a  part  of  a  handsome  house,  probably  the  dining- 
room.  On  the  place  at  that  time  was  a  carpenter  named 
Edgar  Bloomer,  whom  my  mother  hired  by  the  year  and 
who  did  his  work  in  this  room.  He  was  a  nice  man,  and 
as  a  child  I  liked  to  be  out  there  with  him,  watching  the 
long  shavings  curl  into  ringlets  before  his  plane  and  build- 
ing houses  with  the  blocks  that  he  sawed  off.  I  had  four 
brothers — Henry,  Gouverneur,  Charles,  and  Jack — and 
this  room  was  our  lounging-place;  especially  on  rainy  days, 



we  had  lots  of  fun  there.  Harry  was  an  ingenious  fellow 
and  by  working  there  with  Edgar  Bloomer  he  became  an 
excellent  carpenter  and  could  build  almost  anything. 

After  my  father  bought  Danskammer  he  added  to  it 
various  farms  until  he  had  a  river-front  of  about  two  miles, 
from  Mudhole  nearly  to  Hampton — both  these  little  places 
have  changed  their  names  and  are  now  known  as  Roseton 
and  Cedar  Cliff.  Danskammer  is  one  of  the  few  names  that 
appear  on  the  very  oldest  maps,  and  it  was  Henry  Hudson, 
according  to  tradition,  who  christened  the  pretty  wooded 
point  that  curves  out  into  the  river  near  our  house,  and 
called  it  Duyvil's  Danskammer — Devil's  Dancechamber — 
when  he  sailed  up  the  river  in  the  Half  Moon  and  saw  a 
group  of  Indians  dancing  in  the  firelight  on  the  flat  rock 
that  crowned  the  point  in  those  days.  This  Indian  rock 
was  broken  off"  some  years  ago  when  the  steamer  Cornell 
was  wrecked  there  on  a  foggy  night,  and  the  little  light- 
house that  stands  there  now  was  built  after  the  accident. 

My  father  had  a  substantial  taste  in  houses;  he  built 
his  new  house  of  granite,  in  the  classic  style  which  was  the 
fashion  of  the  day,  and  finished  it  throughout  in  black  wal- 
nut. The  dark-colored  granite  came  from  Breakneck,  near 
Cornwall,  and  the  light  granite  of  which  the  columns  and 
trimmings  are  made  was  from  Quincy,  Massachusetts.  I 
have  heard  that  when  the  columns  were  landed  at  our  dock 
there  was  a  great  question  as  to  how  to  get  them  up  the 
hill,  as  they  were  enormous.  They  finally  drilled  holes 
in  the  ends  and  made  rollers  of  the  columns  themselves, 
and  by  attaching  a  tongue  were  able  to  roll  them  up  to 
the  house. 

At  that  time,  before  the  brick-yards  came,  scarring 
the  landscape  and  even  gnawing  away  our  lawns  and 
gardens,  the  situation  was  beautiful,  crowning  a  wooded 



plateau,  with  a  sweeping  view  across  Newburgh  bay  to 
the  Highlands.  We  had  a  delightful  bathing-beach  of  firm 
white  sand,  now  of  course  swallowed  up  by  the  West  Shore 
Railroad,  and  a  dock  where  large  vessels  could  land.  The 
river  was  very  gay  in  those  pre-raihvay  days,  dotted  w^ith 
hundreds  of  sails,  sloops,  and  schooners  plying  between  New 
York  and  Albany.  In  very  old  times  my  people  came  from 
New  York  in  sailboats — "safe,  fast  and  commodious  river 
sloops" — but  when  I  was  a  boy  they  used  the  big  steamers. 
When  I  was  young  there  was  a  horse-boat  ferry  from  Hamp- 
ton to  New  Hamburg,  a  curious  affair  with  a  huge  wheel 
flat  on  the  deck,  operated  by  two  horses,  one  on  each  side 
on  treadmills  that  turned  the  two  paddle-wheels.  When 
that  was  given  up  we  had  to  use  sailboats  or  row  across, 
and  we  made  it  a  point  of  honor  always  to  cross  the  river 
day  or  night,  no  matter  what  the  weather  was  like. 

My  father  settled  in  this  part  of  the  country  because 
my  grandfather,  Colonel  William  Armstrong,  of  the  British 
army,  had  been  greatly  struck  by  the  beauty  of  the  neigh- 
borhood when  he  visited  Newburgh  during  the  Revolu- 
tion. Colonel  Armstrong  was  a  Scotchman;  he  got  his 
commission  as  lieutenant  in  the  17th  Foot  when  he  was 
nineteen,  and  soon  after  came  to  this  country  with  Sir 
Henry  Clinton,  and  served  all  through  the  Revolution, 
being  wounded  in  the  battle  of  Princeton,  and  losing  an 
eye  in  the  battle  of  Stony  Point.  He  surrendered  with 
Cornwallis  at  Yorktown.  It  is  amusing  to  remember  that 
my  wife's  grandfather.  Colonel  Nicholas  Fish,  was  also 
present  at  Yorktown,  on  the  winning  side;  I  wonder  if  the 
two  grandfathers  ever  met. 

My  grandfather  was  sent  to  Newburgh  under  a  flag  of 
truce  to  see  Washington  at  his  headquarters.  He  said 
after  the  interview  that  he  had  never  been  so  much  im- 


pressed  by  any  man  as  by  Washington,  though  he  had 
met  many  of  the  distinguished  men  of  his  time,  among 
them  Napoleon  and  Wellington;  and  he  gave  it  as  his 
opinion  that  a  country  fighting  under  such  a  leader  could 
not  fail  of  victory.  The  late  Doctor  Forsyth,  of  New- 
burgh,  who  knew  my  grandfather  well,  told  me  this  anec- 
dote at  the  Century  Club  in  New  York  some  years  ago. 

In  the  War  of  1812  my  grandfather  became  colonel  of 
the  Nova  Scotia  Fencibles,  but  late  in  hfe  was  naturalized 
as  an  American  citizen.  His  army  chest  in  my  studio  is 
a  huge  and  ponderous  affair  of  solid  English  walnut  and 
brass.  Histories  mention  that  the  British  in  the  battle 
of  Princeton  were  "much  encumbered  with  baggage." 

Firearms  were  a  hobby  of  my  grandfather's.  We  used 
to  have  the  model  of  a  gun  that  he  had  invented  for  the 
British  army.  I  don't  know  that  it  was  ever  used.  Stu- 
pidly enough,  it  was  given  away  to  a  farmer,  a  neighbor 
at  Danskammer,  by  one  of  my  brothers  when  I  was  a  boy. 
Colonel  Armstrong  left  a  fine  collection  of  guns  and  pistols, 
among  them  the  pair  of  pistols,  made  by  Twigg,  which  were 
used  in  the  Burr-Hamilton  duel  in  1804.  The  seconds 
came  to  him  to  borrow  pistols,  as  he  was  known  to  have 
the  best  in  New  York.  The  one  that  shot  Hamilton  is 
marked  with  a  cross.  My  grandfather  was  much  annoyed 
at  having  one  of  his  handsomest  pistols  marred  by  this 
cross  cut  on  the  butt,  which  he  considered  a  liberty,  and 
some  rather  acrimonious  correspondence  ensued  on  the 
subject.  Later  he  gave  them  to  his  eldest  son,  Henry, 
who  was  in  the  British  army  and  used  them  in  India,  but 
when  Henry  was  killed  there  the  pistols  were  returned  to 
my  grandfather,  who  left  them  to  my  uncle.  Commodore 
Salter.  The  commodore  intended  to  bequeath  them  in 
his  turn  to  the  Navy  Lyceum  at  the  Brooklyn  Navy  Yard 



— in  fact,  he  had  promised  them  to  the  curator — but  my 
brother  Harry  persuaded  him  to  give  them  to  him  instead. 
Harry  at  his  death  left  them  to  my  son  Noel,  and  he  has 
them  now. 

It  brings  that  bygone  tragedy  near  to  me  when  I  recall 
that  Harry,  when  he  was  about  fourteen,  had  the  privilege 
of  listening  to  the  story  of  the  famous  duel  as  related  by 
Major  William  Popham,  Burr's  most  intimate  friend,  at 
that  time  the  only  survivor  of  General  Washington's  aides. 
You  may  imagine  with  what  keen  interest  the  boy  hstened 
to  the  old  soldier,  who  had  known  all  the  parties  concerned 
in  the  duel,  and  my  grandfather  as  well.  I  wish  I  had 
heard  him  tell  about  it  myself. 

Colonel  Armstrong  had  three  children  by  his  first  wife, 
Christian  Amiel,  a  French  lady;  the  two  sons  were  named 
Henry  Bruen  and  David  Affleck,  after  Enghsh  generals 
who  were  his  friends.  By  his  second  wife,  Margaret  Mar- 
shall, my  grandmother,  he  had  four — Edward,  Margaret, 
Charles  Marshall,  and  Rose.  (Aunt  Rose  was  named 
Rosetta,  after  the  place  in  Egypt  where  the  "Rosetta 
stone"  was  found,  because,  for  some  now  forgotten  reason, 
my  grandfather  was  interested  in  a  battle  that  was  fought 
there.)  It  is  strange  that  of  all  my  grandfather's  children 
and  grandchildren  I  am  the  only  one  who  has  left  any 

Margaret  Marshall  and  her  sister  Janet  lived  with  their 
stepfather,  John  Ramsay,  sometimes  in  New  York  or 
Philadelphia,  and  sometimes  in  EHzabeth  Town,  as  EHza- 
beth  was  called  in  the  days  when  it  "contained  an  unusual 
number  of  pohte  families."  And  wherever  the  Ramsays 
and  Marshalls  happened  to  be  living  they  had  a  remarkably 
good  time,  judging  from  their  hvely  letters  and  all  the  pretty 
little  visiting-cards  and  invitations  they  left  behind  them. 



My  great-aunt  Janet  married  first  John  Rucker  (her 
granddaughter  married  General  Phil  Sheridan),  and  second 
Alexander  Macomb,  the  ''speculator,"  father  of  General 
Macomb  of  the  War  of  1812.  He  deserved  his  nickname, 
for  the  enterprises  he  embarked  on  with  Robert  Morris 
and  WiHiam  Duer — such  as  buying  four  million  acres  in 
western  New  York  at  eighteen  cents  an  acre — were  on  a 
grand  scale;  too  grand,  indeed,  for  Duer,  who  landed  in 
jail.  Macomb's  Dam  Bridge,  part  of  his  farm,  perpetu- 
ates the  name  of  this  old  gentleman  in  New  York. 

Margaret  Marshall  was  a  belle,  so  it  is  not  surprising 
that  she  had  a  romance  before  meeting  my  grandfather. 
As  a  young  girl  she  became  engaged  to  a  Spanish  gentle- 
man, Senor  Rendon,  secretary  of  the  Spanish  Legation. 
They  never  married.  I  gather  from  his  letters — both 
voluminous  and  passionate — that  the  King  would  not 
allow  him  to  form  an  alhance  with  an  American.  Don 
Gardoqui,  the  first  Spanish  minister  to  this  country,  gave 
Miss  Marshall  two  little  marble  busts  of  Caesar  and  Scan- 
tilla,  which  now  stand  on  my  parlor  mantelpiece  in  New 
York,  and  I  also  have  an  interesting  pastel  of  Madame 
Van  Berckel,  wife  of  the  first  Dutch  minister,  given  to  my 
grandmother  by  Van  Berckel's  daughter.  (She  went  to 
the  West  Indies  and  never  returned.  I  beheve  the  ship 
was  lost.) 

My  old  friend  Judge  Kent  knew  Colonel  Armstrong 
when  his  daughters  were  young  and  much  admired.  My 
grandfather  was  a  peppery  old  gentleman,  and  when 
young  Judge  Kent — though  I  suppose  he  was  not  a  judge 
then — went  to  the  Armstrongs'  house  one  night  with  some 
other  young  men  to  serenade  the  young  ladies,  the  colonel 
appeared  at  an  upper  window  with  a  gun  and  threatened 
to  shoot  if  they  did  not  desist. 



My  grandfather  died  before  I  was  born,  but  my  brother 
Harry  remembered  his  taking  a  walk  with  him  wearing  a 
black  patch  over  one  eye  and  his  hair  in  a  pigtail.  The 
old  gentleman  bought  a  card  of  peppermints  for  the  little 
boy;  in  those  days  peppermints  came  stuck  in  rows  on 
bits  of  pasteboard. 

A  family  sorrow,  bitter  in  its  da}^  but  carrying  only  a 
flavor  of  romance  by  the  time  I  arrived  upon  the  scene, 
was  the  death  of  my  uncle  Henry,  my  grandfather's  eldest 
son  by  his  first  marriage.  He  was  also  in  the  British 
army,  fought  in  Spain  and  was  at  the  battle  of  Corunna 
and  in  the  famous  retreat;  perhaps  he  was  at  the  burial  of 
Sir  John  Moore,  when  "not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a 
funeral  note."  Henry  was  killed  at  the  siege  of  Bhurt- 
poor  in  India — "leading  a  forlorn  hope,  blown  up  by  a 
mine,"  I  was  told  as  a  child.  Bhurtpoor,  the  capital  of 
the  Jats,  was  a  formidable  fortress,  and  it  took  the  British 
two  months  to  reduce  it,  but  finally,  on  the  i8th  of  Jan- 
uary, 1826,  they  exploded  ten  thousand  pounds  of  powder 
in  the  chief  mine  and  entered  the  city  through  a  breach  in 
the  wall,  incidentally  losing  six  hundred  men,  among  them 
my  uncle  Henry — but  "the  moral  effect  was  deep  and 
lasting,"  the  histories  tell  us.  The  news  was  a  terrible 
blow  to  his  family.  My  aunt  Rose  told  my  brother 
Harry  that  they  were  all  sitting  at  the  breakfast-table 
when  the  Albion,  a  British  newspaper,  was  brought  in  and 
my  grandfather  found  his  son's  name  among  the  list  of 
the  slain. 

My  father,  Edward  Armstrong,  also  followed  my  grand- 
father into  the  British  army.  I  have  his  commission 
signed  by  George  IV,  in  which  he  is  styled  "Edward  Arm- 
strong, Gentleman,"  and  made  an  ensign  in  the  104th 
Regiment   of   Foot.     He   was   then   ten   years   old — they 



caught  them  young  in  those  days.  I  don't  know  whether 
or  not  he  resigned  from  the  army  immediately  after  he 
married,  but  in  old  letters  he  is  addressed  as  captain. 

It  was  at  "Morrisania,"  the  old  Morris  place  in  West- 
chester, that  my  father  met  my  mother  for  the  first  time. 
She  was  Sarah  Hartley  Ward,  the  daughter  of  Colonel 
John  Ward,  of  Carolina,  and  was  making  the  Morrises  a 
visit  with  her  sister  Mary,  who  also  met  her  future  hus- 
band, Gouverneur  Morris  Wilkins,  on  this  occasion.  I 
have  heard  that  the  coming  of  the  Misses  Ward  from 
Charleston  to  New  York  was  something  of  an  event  in 
the  restricted  society  of  that  time,  and  doubtless  many 
young  men  were  interested  in  the  advent  of  these  heiresses. 
My  father  and  mother  were  married  in  1822  at  the  house 
of  Doctor  Wilkes,  St.  John's  Park,  in  Trinity  parish. 
They  had  seven  children,  only  four  of  whom  lived  to  grow 
up.     I  was  the  youngest. 

My  father  was  one  of  the  handsomest  men  of  his  time. 
When  Lord  Stanley,  later  Earl  of  Derby,  visited  America 
he  went  to  Charleston  with  my  father  and  attended  church 
there  with  him.  All  the  girls  were  on  the  lookout  to  see 
the  nobleman.  But  they  mistook  my  father  for  Lord 
Stanley  and  said  it  was  easy  to  see  that  a  British  nobleman 
was  much  more  distinguished-looking  than  any  American. 
I  have  a  miniature  of  him  by  Rogers;  it  was  then  the  cus- 
tom for  a  man  to  present  his  miniature  to  his  fiancee,  and 
this  was  his  gift  to  my  mother  at  the  time  of  their  mar- 
riage. He  was  an  accomplished  man;  he  drew,  and  wTote 
poetry,  played  the  viohn,  and  had  some  knowledge  of 
medicine.  He  was  a  great  favorite;  my  Aunt  Margaret 
Salter  told  me  that  when  he  was  at  a  ball,  if  he  saw  a  plain 
girl  having  no  attention,  he  would  make  a  point  of  dancing 
with  her  and  trying  to  give  her  a  good  time,  and  old  Mrs. 



Chrystie  said  he  could  cut  the  most  beautiful  double  pigeon- 
wing  she  ever  saw.  He  was  loved  by  all  his  neighbors, 
high  and  low. 

My  father  was  athletic,  a  splendid  shot  and  rider,  an 
adept  in  all  manly  arts,  and  up  to  all  the  sports  of  the 
time.  He  raised  many  fine  race-horses,  chiefly  sired  by 
"Sir  Henry,"  famous  for  his  race  with  "EcHpse";  but  my 
mother  objected  to  racing,  so  only  once  did  he  enter  a 
horse  for  a  race  and  that  was  not  for  money,  but  for  a 
"pipe  of  wine."  Whether  he  won  or  not  I  don't  know. 
Many  of  the  famous  trotting-horses  of  Orange  County  are 
descended  from  thoroughbred  mares  that  my  father  owned. 
Old  people  have  told  me  how  well  my  father  looked  on 
his  favorite  horse,  a  mahogany  bay  named  Frank,  which 
I  remember  perfectly.  He  also  had  a  particularly  favorite 
gun,  a  muzzle-loader  made  by  Westley  Richards,  which  he 
always  used. 

My  family  were  all  exceedingly  fond  of  shooting  and 
fishing;  their  old  letters  almost  always  mention  the  size 
of  the  trout  that  had  been  caught  or  the  number  of  birds 
that  had  been  shot  lately.  When  I  was  a  boy  the  shoot- 
ing was  still  good  in  our  neighborhood,  even  wild  pigeons 
were  still  plentiful — my  father  writes  to  Uncle  Charles  of 
killing  sixty-two  in  one  day — but  they  are  now  entirely 
extinct.  In  an  old  book  of  travels  in  the  State  of  New 
York  in  1783  the  author  speaks  of  the  pigeons  breeding 
in  infinite  numbers:  "In  a  valley  where  they  nested,  for 
six  or  eight  miles  nearly  every  tree  had  a  number  of  nests, 
and  some  trees  not  less  than  fifteen  or  twenty."  M3' 
father  used  to  go  off  on  long  hunting  expeditions  with  an 
intimate  friend  of  his,  the  Honorable  Charles  Augustus 
Murray,  grandson  of  Lord  Dunmore,  the  last  English 
governor  of  Virginia,  notorious  for  having  burned  Norfolk. 



Partly  because  of  the  fine  shooting,  but  also  as  a  specula- 
tion, my  father  and  Mr.  Murray  bought  several  farms 
together  in  Pennsylvania  in  the  centre  of  the  coal  region. 
Unfortunately  the  resources  remained  undeveloped  while 
in  their  hands,  and  in  the  end  the  land  was  sold  to  the 

Mr.  Murray  was  a  great  traveller.  He  stayed  some 
years  over  here,  much  of  the  time  being  spent  among  the 
savage  tribes  of  American  Indians  in  the  Far  West,  mak- 
ing what  he  called  a  "summer  residence"  with  the  Paw- 
nees, and  recounted  his  adventures  in  a  most  interesting 
book  of  ''Travels."  In  a  letter  to  my  father  Mr.  Murray 
gives  an  account  of  a  ride  he  took  from  Danskammer  to 
Albany  in  1834,  stopping  on  the  way  to  see  the  Hosack 
place  at  Hyde  Park,  where  he  was  shown  around  the 
grounds  by  young  Mrs.  Hosack.  Alas,  where  is  "young 
Mrs.  Hosack"  now!  The  Hosack  place,  which  Doctor 
Hosack  bought  from  Doctor  Bard  in  1830,  has  always  been 
celebrated  for  its  beauty — great  trees  crowning  a  broad 
plateau  in  full  view  of  the  Catskills.  The  old  colonial 
house  was  torn  down  about  twenty  years  ago  and  replaced 
by  one  built  by  McKim,  Mead  and  White  for  Frederick 
Vanderbilt.  Doctor  Hosack  must  have  been  a  nice  old 
fellow  as  well  as  a  great  scientist;  he  gave  a  strawberry 
festival  every  year  in  his  garden  in  New  York  for  the 
students  in  his  classes  at  Columbia. 

From  Albany  Mr.  Murray  went  to  Geneseo,  where  he 
stayed  with  the  Wadsworths,  and  wrote:  "The  extensive 
farms  formed  a  scene  to  delight  the  eye  of  a  Poussin  or  a 
Sir  J.  Sinclair,  but  possessed  less  interest  to  a  contempla- 
tive mind  than  the  venerable  and  excellent  gentleman  who 
had  almost  created  it.  For  it  is  now  forty-four  years  since 
Mr.  W.  came  as  the  first  settler  to  this  spot,  with  his  axe 



on  his  shoulder  and  slept  the  first  night  under  a  tree. 
He  is  now  the  universally  esteemed  possessor  of  a  demesne 
which  many  of  the  proudest  nobility  of  Europe  might 
look  upon  with  envy."  This  enthusiastic  guest  must  have 
made  an  equally  pleasant  impression  on  his  hosts,  for  later 
he  married  Elizabeth  Wadsworth.  Mr.  Murray  was  am- 
bassador to  Persia  and  several  other  courts,  and  was  at 
one  time  Master  of  the  Household  to  Queen  Victoria. 
One  of  his  letters,  speaking  of  the  Queen's  marriage  and 
describing  Prince  Albert,  has  an  engraving  at  the  top  of 
the  page  of  Buckingham  Palace,  the  window^  of  his  room 
marked  with  a  cross,  "for  the  children."  Of  course  he 
often  came  to  stay  with  us  at  Danskammer.  My  brother 
Gouverneur  remembered  that  on  one  occasion  Harry  and 
he  ran  races  together  and  Mr.  Murray  offered  them 
shillings  as  prizes  or  tips;  as  independent  Americans  the 
boys  refused  them,  and  Gouv  remembered  that  my  father 
was  not  pleased,  because  English  boys  were  always  ready 
to  take  tips. 

My  father  died  in  1840.  Though  I  w^as  about  four 
years  old  I  do  not  remember  him.  All  I  remember  is 
going  to  the  door  of  the  large  "north  room"  at  Danskam- 
mer, and  looking  in  and  seeing  something  covered  by  a 
sheet;  I  knew  it  was  he  and  that  he  was  lying  there  dead. 
He  died  of  scarlet  fever  just  a  few  days  after  the  death 
from  the  same  disease  of  my  only  sister,  httle  Mary. 

We  all  had  scarlet  fever  at  the  same  time.  I  got  off 
very  lightly  and  was  out  and  around  while  the  others  were 
still  in  their  rooms.  Old  Doctor  Van  CIcek  allowed  no 
refreshing  drinks,  not  even  water,  or  fruit;  so  Harry,  who 
was  imprisoned  in  Aunt  Rose's  room  on  the  second  floor, 
used  to  let  down  a  doubled-up  jack-knife  on  a  string,  to 
which  I  would  fasten  pears,  peaches,  and  plums,  and  he 



would  hoist  them  up.  One  day  he  managed  to  crawl  out 
of  bed  and  drank  the  whole  contents  of  the  water-pitcher 
on  the  wash-stand,  after  which  he  went  to  sleep  and  woke 
up  cured.  At  the  time  my  father  died  my  mother  was  so 
ill  that  she  could  not  be  told  of  his  death  or  of  that  of  her 
little  girl  until  much  later. 

My  earliest  recollection  is  an  adventure  I  had  with  my 
little  sister  Mary  when  she  was  six  and  I  was  four.  I  have 
only  this  one  memory  of  her.  Mary  and  I  were  out  in  the 
"sugar-loaf"  field  alone,  standing  on  the  bank  of  the  brook 
near  the  bridge,  when  suddenly  a  little  "skilly-pot"  turtle 
scuttled  across  the  brook,  which  excited  us  so  much  that  we 
both  fell  off  into  the  water.  It  was  shallow  and  there  was 
no  danger,  but  we  both  got  a  good  wetting  and  were  afraid 
to  go  home  in  that  condition,  so  we  went  to  the  top  of  the 
hill  at  the  end  of  the  avenue  and  tried  to  dry  ourselves  in  the 
sun.  Not  being  very  successful  in  this,  we  finally  went  home, 
where  we  found  my  mother  in  the  large  storeroom  closet. 
She  was  getting  out  rock-candy  from  a  tin  box  that  always 
stood  on  the  top  shelf,  and  was  giving  it  to  the  other  chil- 
dren. All  these  details  are  impressed  so  clearly  on  my 
memory — they  say  the  first  thing  a  child  remembers  is 
invariably  connected  with  something  to  eat — because  my 
mother  did  not  give  Mary  and  me  any  of  the  rock-candy. 
I  remember  well  the  delightful  box  from  which  the  candy 
came,  the  rich  dark  plum-cake  that  lived  in  it,  and  all  the 
other  deficacies.  This  is,  as  I  say,  the  only  thing  I  am 
sure  I  remember  about  my  little  sister,  but  I  have  also  a 
very  distinct  impression — whether  real  or  fancied,  I  do 
not  know — of  a  fair  little  face  and  long,  curling  fight  hair. 
If  I  ever  reach  heaven  and  see  her,  as  I  often  pray  that  I 
may,  shall  I  know  her  when  we  meet? 

I  remember  other  things  about  that  summer  of  1840. 



I  remember  Commodore  Salter,  Aunt  Margaret's  husband, 
being  there  at  Danskammer,  and  also  Mr.  David  Mait- 
land,  my  godfather.  Of  course  Commodore  Salter  stands 
out  so  plainly  because  he  gave  me  my  first  ride  on  horse- 
back. He  had  a  bay  horse  that  was  kept  in  our  stable, 
and  one  day  he  put  me  on  the  back  of  this  bay  and  led 
him  out  among  the  apple-trees  in  the  orchard.  This  was 
a  memorable  ride  and  I  shall  never  forget  it. 

Mr.  David  Maitland  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  Dans- 
kammer, and  I  looked  forward  to  his  coming,  as  he  always 
brought  candy — packages  of  ''Stewart's  Mixed  Broken 
Candy,"  made  by  R.  L.  and  A.  Stew^art.  Their  place  in 
New  York  was  on  Chambers  Street,  the  north  side,  where 
it  forms  a  sort  of  square.  This  candy  was  put  up  in  square 
packages,  blue  and  white,  holding  about  a  pound;  there 
were  sticks  of  pink  cinnamon,  wintergreen,  red  and  white 
striped,  and  white  vanilla  in  squarish  pieces,  also  occa- 
sional strips  of  lemon  that  were  very  much  prized;  later  it 
was  called  "Ridley's  Broken  Candy."  The  Stewarts  were 
Scotchmen  who  made  a  large  fortune  and  lived  in  hand- 
some houses  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

When  Aunt  Margaret  visited  Danskammer,  the  first 
thing  she  always  did  was  to  go  down  into  the  nursery  and 
see  my  old  nurse,  Catherine  Small,  for  she  had  also  been 
nurse  for  all  the  Armstrong  family  and  they  were  devoted 
to  her.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  sailor  who  had  been  killed 
by  falhng  from  a  mast.  Her  room  was  in  the  basement, 
with  one  window  toward  the  south  that  had  one  of  those 
wide  window-seats  in  which  two  people  could  sit  comforta- 
bly; a  like  window  opened  into  a  long  hall  under  the  porch, 
which  always  kept  its  white  shutters  closed,  and  on  them 
hung  hfe-sized  portraits  in  red  crayon  by  Saint  Mem  in  of 
my  grandfather  and  grandmother  Armstrong,  of  which  I 



now  have  small  steel-engravings.  Both  pictures  and 
frames  were  valuable,  but  in  moving  from  Danskammer 
they  were  left  in  a  bureau-drawer  and  lost,  hke  a  good 
many  other  nice  old  things.  Our  garret  was  full  of  such 
treasures  and  was  a  fme  place  to  play  on  rainy  days.  At 
one  end  was  a  dark  room  over  the  porch,  and  at  the  other 
a  raised  platform  where  were  kept  large  portfolios  of  en- 
gravings by  Boydell  and  Bartolozzi.  There  were  chests 
filled  with  old  British  uniforms,  trappers'  and  American 
Indian  dresses  belonging  to  my  father,  made  of  leather 
with  fringes  on  them,  and  quantities  of  old  brocade  dresses 
which  we  used  for  charades.  My  sister-in-law  cut  up 
some  of  the  red  coats  to  make  iron-holders,  and  the  bro- 
cades went  for  pincushions  for  a  church  fair,  but  in  the 
end  I  secured  some  of  the  engravings. 

At  one  end  of  the  nursery  was  a  FrankHn  stove,  where 
a  wood-fire  always  burned  on  chilly  days,  at  the  other  a 
tall  mahogany  press  with  shelves  above  and  doors  below, 
in  which  were  always  goodies  of  some  sort.  The  nursery 
was  the  meeting-place  for  all  the  children;  we  played  our 
games  there,  and  as  it  was  near  the  storeroom  my  mother 
also  made  a  convenience  of  it  and  cut  up  the  loaf  sugar 
there.  In  those  days  sugar  came  in  the  shape  of  a  cone, 
about  eighteen  inches  high  and  six  inches  across  at  the 
base;  it  was  wrapped  in  several  layers  of  paper,  the  outer 
being  thick  and  of  a  dark-purple  color.  On  Christmas 
Eve  we  hung  up  our  stockings  at  the  Frankhn,  and  I 
remember  opening  mine  one  time  sitting  in  the  big  trundle- 
bed  that  stood  beside  nurse's,  so  big  that  several  children 
could  sleep  in  it.  It  was  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the 
Frankhn  that  we  did  most  of  our  work,  made  molasses 
candy,  mended  our  skates,  greased  our  boots,  and  around 
the  large  table  we  stoned  the  raisins  for  the  Christmas 
plum  pudding. 



When  nurse  got  very  old  and  bent  and  went  about 
with  a  stick  she  could  scarcely  let  mc  out  of  her  sight,  and 
was  always  hobbling  out  to  the  "cold  spring,"  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away,  to  see  if  I  had  fallen  into  it.  One 
rainy  day  she  was  missed  from  the  house,  and  after  a  long 
search  she  was  found  lying  in  the  raspberry  patch  insen- 
sible. She  had  evidently  gone  to  look  for  me.  After  this 
she  was  somewhat  childish,  though  she  hved  for  several 
years,  until  she  was  nearly  ninety.  She  was  a  dear,  sweet 
old  soul. 

When  the  large  table  which  I  spoke  of  in  the  nursery 
was  not  in  use  for  some  housekeeping  rite  we  used  it  for 
playing  games.     One  game  was  sea-fighting.     We  had  vast 
fleets  of  wooden  ships  made  up  from  shingles  fitted  with 
masts,  sails,  and   bowsprits.     They  were  war-ships    with 
historic  names.  Wasp,  Frolic,  and  the  like.     Harry  usually 
cut  them  out,  perhaps  a  hundred  to  a  fleet.     They  would 
sally  out  and  meet  the  hostile  fleet  and  ram  them— it  was 
our   only    means   of  warfare — the   enemy   would    ram    in 
return,  and  when  any  vessel  was  practically  disabled,  with 
mast  and  rigging  gone,  perhaps  upset,  it  was  towed  into 
harbor  as  a  prize.     We  really  had  splendid  fun  and  got 
very  much  excited  over  the  exploits  of  some  favorite  ship. 
Then  we  had  jackstraws,  cut  out  in  various  shapes,  such 
as  horses  and  castles,  by  Harry,  who  was  very  handy  with 
his  knife.     They  all  had  numbers  on  the  sides,  and  when 
one  got  500  he  w^as  winner.     I  remember  a  horse  was  the 
highest,  1 00.     Now^  those  winter  evenings  seem  ages  ago ! 
Truly  "the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

And  always  as  our  companion  was  little  Fox,  a  yel- 
low, dear,  small  Scotch  terrier,  given  to  Gouv  by  Mr. 
David  Maitland.  Fox  was  Gouv's  regular  companion  to 
his  rabbit-traps.  I  was  too  young  then  to  be  allowed  to 
go  to  the  traps,  but  later  I  used  to  set  traps  and  once 



caught  eleven  in  one  night.  When  the  snow  was  deep 
Gouv  used  to  have  to  carry  Fox  in  his  arms  for  miles;  but 
he  always  went  along.  In  making  our  traps  we  used  an 
Indian  tomahawk  that  had  belonged  to  Brant,  the  famous 
chief  of  the  Six  Nations,  that  had  been  given  by  him  to 
my  grandfather  when  he  went  to  see  him  on  some  mission 
or  other.  Of  course  after  a  while  we  lost  it.  We  had 
many  dogs;  one,  a  splendid  brindled  half-mastiff  and  half- 
bulldog  named  Leo,  used  to  have  awful  fights  with 
Don,  a  fine  yellow  pointer,  which  we  kept  for  Uncle 
Charles  when  he  was  off  on  a  cruise.  Don  would  seize 
the  mastiff  by  his  fore  paws,  and  it  was  almost  impossible 
to  make  him  let  go,  so  Leo  often  went  about  lame  and 
bandaged  up.  When  my  father  died  he  left  to  our  care  a 
beautiful  yellow-and-white  setter  named  Ulric,  given  to 
him  by  Mr.  Maitland;  he  lived  many  years,  but  finally 
became  so  infirm  that  once  when  he  was  taking  a  drink 
at  the  "cold  spring"  near  the  barns  and  sheep-pen  he  fell 
in  and  was  drowned.  And  then  there  was  Jet,  a  beau- 
tiful black  pointer  that  Mr.  Maitland  gave  Harry,  bred 
from  dogs  belonging  to  Joseph  Bonaparte.  So  we  had 
plenty  of  dogs. 

My  uncle  Henry,  who  was  killed  in  India,  was  never 
more  to  me  than  a  romantic  name,  but  Uncle  Charles 
figured  conspicuously  and  defightfully  in  our  boyish  fives. 
A  fieutenant  in  the  United  States  navy,  he  spent  most  of 
his  shore  leave  at  Danskammer,  and  his  visits  were  great 
events;  he  was  so  jolly  and  entertaining,  so  full  of  life  and 
spirits.  And  then  he  was  sure  to  bring  us  all  manner  of 
curiosities  that  he  had  picked  up  on  his  voyages — rare  shells, 
strange  arms,  and  such-fike  barbaric  treasure.  One  of  his 
voyages  was  in  the  U.  S.  Sloop-of-War  Saratoga  to  the 
coast  of  Africa — she  was  built  at  Portsmouth  and  this  was 



her  maiden  trip — and  he  brought  fascinating  things  from 
this  cruise  and  thrilled  us  \vith  fine  tales  of  an  African 
chief  he  had  met,  with  a  marvellous  name  which  I  have 
forgotten.  From  Egypt  he  once  brought  us  some  wheat 
that  had  been  found  in  a  mummy-case.  It  was  planted, 
and  in  my  mind's  eye  I  can  see  the  beautiful  waving  green 
patch  that  sprang  from  it  growing  at  one  side  of  the  avenue. 
But,  sad  to  say,  my  brother  Gouv  insists  that  it  never 
came  up. 

One  of  uncle's  cruises  under  the  command  of  Commo- 
dore Perry  had  an  unfortunate  termination.  It  seems 
that  on  a  certain  occasion  Perry  was  obliged  to  be  away, 
and  left  the  ship  under  the  command  of  a  heutenant  of  a 
lower  rank  than  my  uncle.  As  this  was  not  at  all  in 
accordance  with  etiquette,  Uncle  Charles  considered  it  an 
insult  and  expostulated  with  the  commodore,  and  finally 
sent  him  a  challenge  to  fight  a  duel,  through  his  friend  and 
second,  Captain  Hunter.  Commodore  Perry  declined  to 
meet  him,  and  my  uncle  was  court-martialled  for  challeng- 
ing his  superior  officer;  but  he  was  practically  acquitted, 
for  he  was  given  merely  a  nominal  sentence,  being  sus- 
pended for  a  very  short  time.  I  befieve  the  affair  caused 
quite  a  stir  in  navy  circles. 

The  story  of  "Alvarado"  Hunter,  as  this  friend  of  my 
uncle's  was  called,  was  pretty  tragic.  During  the  Mexican 
War  he  was  sent  with  one  small  ship  to  blockade  the  town 
of  Alvarado  until  the  land  forces  came  up,  but  he  managed 
to  take  the  place  before  the  army  got  there;  for  this  excess 
of  zeal  he  was  dismissed  from  the  service,  to  the  indigna- 
tion of  his  friends. 

My  brother  Harry  was  devoted  to  Uncle  Charles,  and 
used  to  stay  on  the  North  Carolina  with  him;  it  was  then 
that  Harry  got  the  passion  for  the  sea  that  held  him  all 



his  life.  Uncle  gave  him  the  dog  Carlo,  a  beautiful 
cocker  spaniel  with  long  silken  ears,  brought  up  on  the 
ship  and  taught  any  number  of  clever  tricks  by  the  sailors, 
such  as  cHmbing  a  ladder  and  fetching  one's  shppers.  But 
one  accomplishment  he  had  acquired  on  land.  He  could 
catch  a  snake  by  the  middle  and  shake  the  life  out  of  it 
before  it  got  the  smallest  chance  to  defend  itself. 

I  shall  never  forget  Uncle  Charles's  last  visit  to  Dans- 
kammer.  It  was  winter  and  the  snow  was  on  the  ground; 
I  was  out  at  the  stable  and  he  drove  up  to  say  good-by. 
I  watched  him  as  he  disappeared  through  the  big  black 
gate.  I  never  saw  him  again.  It  was  a  great  grief  to  all 
of  us  boys  when  we  heard  of  his  death,  just  as  he  was 
finishing  a  cruise,  "at  midnight,  aboard  cruiser  Ohio,  off 
Rio,  homeward-bound."  He  died  of  yellow  fever  and  was 
buried  at  sea.  I  heard  at  the  time  that  he  was  taken  ill 
of  the  fever  on  shore  and  did  not  want  to  be  taken  back  to 
the  ship,  fearing  that  the  disease  would  be  communicated 
to  others.  This  was  like  him;  he  was  an  unselfish,  gallant 
fellow.  We  boys  loved  him  dearly.  I  have  heard  that  at 
his  funeral  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  on  the  ship. 

For  years  after  his  death  old  sahs  would  turn  up  at 
Danskammer  and  tell  us  about  him;  they  said  that  on 
board  ship  he  was  a  strict  disciplinarian,  but  when  any 
sailor  met  him  on  shore  he  ahvays  gave  him  all  the  money 
he  had  in  his  pockets.  When  these  old  sailors  came  to 
Danskammer  we  always  gave  them  a  glass  of  brandy  and 
two  dollars  and  sent  them  on  their  way  rejoicing.  They 
would  have  to  go  to  Hampton  to  take  the  ferry  across  the 
river  for  the  train  at  New  Hamburg,  and  the  path  went 
through  our  barnyard.  One  of  these  old  salts,  after  the 
usual  drink  and  tip,  started  on  his  way;  some  time  after- 
ward Gouv  happened  to  go  out  to  the  barn,  and  there 



was  the  old  fellow  perched  on  top  of  the  barnyard  gate, 
watching  round-eyed  a  pair  of  white  oxen  sleeping  peace- 
fully in  the  sun.  They  were  kind,  tranquil  beasts,  but  to 
the  old  seaman  they  were  an  unknown  terror.  Gouv  asked 
him  why  he  was  waiting,  and  he  said  he  was  afraid  "one  of 
those  fellows  would  run  him  down." 

My  mother,  who  you  will  remember  came  from  Caro- 
hna,  was  very  hospitable  and  kept  open  house  at  Dans- 
kammer,  most  of  her  guests  being  our  Southern  relations. 
She  always  kept  good  horses,  and  in  old  times  usually 
drove  to  Charleston  for  the  winter,  with  four  horses,  tak- 
ing a  considerable  time  for  the  trip,  and  as  there  were  few 
hotels,  she  was  entertained  by  her  friends  all  along  the 
way.  It  must  have  been  an  ideal  way  to  travek 
I  remember  very  well  the  two  large  travelling  carriages 
that  used  to  stand  in  our  stable,  arranged  for  four  horses, 
with  a  high  seat  for  the  coachman  with  a  big  hammer-cloth 
below  his  seat,  and  platforms  behind  for  footmen  and 
luggage,  and  flights  of  folding  steps  that  let  down  from 
inside  the  carriage. 

Our  every-day  carriage  was  the  shape  of  a  pumpkin- 
seed,  also  with  a  hammer-cloth  and  steps  to  let  down,  and 
was  hung  on  large  springs  front  and  rear.  When  my 
mother  went  to  hve  in  New  York  in  1849  ^^^  ^^t  the  house 
and  farm  to  Mr.  Warren  DeLano,  all  the  horses  except 
Charley  and  some  of  the  furniture  w^ere  sold  at  auction, 
what  is  called  a  **vandue"  in  our  part  of  the  country.  A 
good  many  valuable  things  that  were  not  then  appreciated 
were  sold  at  that  time.  We  had  a  pair  of  small  mules 
and  I  remember  how  funny  Sam  and  Bill  looked  when, 
after  the  sale,  they  were  driven  off  by  their  purchaser, 
harnessed  to  our  great  family  carriage.  Bill  was  a 
vicious  animal,  but  Harry  was  venturesome  and  used  to 



ride  him.  Mules  do  not  have  prominent  withers  like 
horses,  so  when  Bill  stood  up  perpendicularly  on  his 
forelegs,  Harry  and  the  saddle  would  slip  over  his  head, 
and  both  come  down  in  a  heap,  but  he  would  put  the  sad- 
dle on  and  have  another  try.  Harry  even  rode  the  cows 

My  mother  was  a  very  humane  woman,  but  she  had 
all  her  horses'  tails  docked  if  they  were  long  when  she 
bought  them.  Previous  to  being  docked,  the  muscles  of 
the  tail  were  cut  by  a  veterinary  surgeon,  then  the  end  was 
attached  to  cords  that  ran  over  pulleys  fastened  to  the 
posts  at  each  side  of  the  rear  of  the  stall,  which  kept  the 
tail  in  an  upright  position,  and  this  process  was  continued 
for  several  weeks,  until  the  tail  was  always  carried  up.  It 
was  then  docked.  It  was  cruel,  but  every  one  did  it;  one 
never  saw  carriage-horses  with  long  tails.  Now  it  is  for- 
bidden by  the  S.  P.  C.  A. 

When  I  was  little  we  went  to  church  in  Newburgh,  at 
St.  George's,  where  the  Reverend  Doctor  Brown  was  rec- 
tor for  more  than  fifty  years.  I  believe  when  he  first 
began  his  hfe  there  that  there  was  great  prejudice  against 
him  on  account  of  his  being  an  Episcopalian — it  was  shortly 
after  our  difficulties  with  England,  and  people  had  not 
yet  got  over  the  dislike  for  everything  Enghsh,  including 
the  Enghsh  Church.  I  remember  the  long,  cold  drives 
to  church  on  winter  mornings  and  the  leathery  smell  of 
the  closed  carriage.  When  we  drove  into  Newburgh  for 
shopping  we  would  stop  the  carriage  in  front  of  the  shops 
and  they  would  bring  the  things  out  to  show  us.  The 
Bank  of  Newburgh  and  the  Highland  Bank  were  just 
where  they  are  now,  and  nearly  opposite  was  Farnham's 
grocery-store.  All  the  grocers  were  then  liquor  dealers  as 
well,  and  usually  had  bars  in  the  rear  of  their  stores,  and 



it  was  not  thought  to  be  to  their  discredit.  Mrs.  Farnham 
was  a  very  capable  lady  and  I  remember  her  coming  to 
Danskammer  to  help  my  mother  make  calfs-foot  jelly  for 
a  church  fair.  The  jelly  was  made  in  a  bag  and  hung  up 
in  the  schoolroom  to  drip — a  big  round  bag  like  a  hot-water 
bottle  dripping  into  a  pan. 

The  roads  in  winter  when  there  was  no  snow  were 
pretty  bad,  and  everybody  was  glad  when  the  ice  on  the 
river  froze  thick  enough  for  sleighing.  As  soon  as  it  was 
strong  some  venturesome  person  would  lay  out  a  track 
and  mark  it  with  Httle  cedar-trees,  and  then  we  had  a 
fine  level  road,  sometimes  for  months.  Of  course  there 
were  no  big  steamboats  and  ferries  to  break  up  the  ice  as 
they  do  now.  One  of  my  earliest  recollections  is  a  drive 
across  the  river  with  my  mother  and  old  John  Bush,  our 
colored  coachman  for  forty  years,  and  a  visit  to  the  Ver- 
plancks  at  Fishkill.  I  was  sent  to  play  with  the  children 
— I  was  perhaps  five  years  old — and  presently  when  a  tre- 
mendous noise  emanated  from  the  nursery  they  all  rushed 
up  and  found  that  I  had  quarrelled  with  one  of  the  boys 
and  had  felled  him  with  a  chair.  I  don't  recall  what  hap- 
pened afterward;  I  only  remember  that  I  was  in  disgrace. 
The  Society  of  the  Cincinnati  was  founded  in  the  old  Ver- 
planck  homestead  and  the  place  is  one  of  the  original 

Until  1849  ^v^  always  lived  summer  and  winter  at 
Danskammer.  For  several  years  we  had  tutors,  three  in 
all,  young  divinity  students.  The  Reverend  Henry  Ed- 
wards I  remember  as  a  handsome  young  man  who  was 
fond  of  chemistry  and  used  to  make  interesting  experi- 
ments, resulting  sometimes  in  explosions  which  we  thought 
very  exciting.  Each  of  our  desks  in  the  schoolroom  had 
under  it  a  small  open  box,  hke  a  carpenter's  mitre-box,  in 



which  we  put  our  feet,  in  order  to  make  our  toes  turn  out ! 
I  don't  know  whose  idea  it  was  or  whether  or  no  it  had  the 
desired  effect.  Our  schoolroom,  the  north  basement  room, 
had  wide  window-seats  level  with  the  lawn  outside,  fine 
places  to  sit  when  we  wanted  to  paint  in  water-colors  or 
make  boats.  These  windows  were  guarded  by  iron  bars, 
soldered  with  lead  into  the  granite  sills  and  supposed  to 
be  immovable.  Mr.  Edwards's  punishment  for  misde- 
meanors— and  with  five  boys  there  were  a  good  many  such 
■ — was  "keeping  in."  So  when  a  punishment  was  due  he 
would  lock  the  door  in  the  afternoon  and  go  away,  leaving 
us,  as  he  supposed,  safely  imprisoned.  But  Harry  was  an 
ingenious  boy  and  contrived  to  drill  the  solder  out  from 
around  two  of  the  bars,  so  that  we  could  all  creep  out  and 
get  safely  back  by  the  time  Mr.  Edwards  returned.  And 
I  do  not  think  that  he  ever  discovered  how  we  spent  our 
afternoons.  At  that  time  we  had  an  old  farmer  named 
Jonathan  Pierce;  when  the  "Pickwick  Papers"  came  out 
Mr.  Edwards  would  have  old  Jonathan  into  the  school- 
room and  read  it  aloud  to  him,  and  he  would  enjoy  it 
enormously  and  be  convulsed  with  laughter. 

The  Reverend  Samuel  Hawkesley,  afterward  rector  at 
Marlborough,  was  the  best  of  all  our  tutors.  We  were 
awfully  fond  of  him;  he  was  jolly  and  amused  us  very 
much,  and  was  a  good  man  besides.  When  he  was  at 
Marlborough  he  established  missions  at  Latintown  and 
Ellenville  and  many  other  places.  As  he  had  no  horse,  he 
used  to  walk  to  all  these  missions.  It  is  about  forty  miles 
from  Marlborough  to  Ellenville ! 

In  1847  Jack  and  I  went  to  Mr.  Alzimora's  school  in 
Newburgh,  and  my  mother  left  us  there  for  the  two  winters 
which  she  spent  in  New  York  and  Charleston.  It  was 
what  is  called  a  "select  school,"  but  the  boys  might  have 



been  "selected"  for  their  badness — they  were  the  only 
really  bad  boys  I  ever  met  at  school.  Our  principal 
amusements  were  skating  and  coasting  in  winter — New- 
burgh  has  always  been  famous  for  its  skaters — and  swim- 
ming in  summer  from  a  fine  beach  now  swept  away  by  the 
railroad.  I  remember  a  boy  named  Seabury  Lawrence 
swimming  across  there.  One  calm  summer  evening  some 
years  later  I  swam  from  our  dock  to  the  white  house  just 
below  the  Suydams'  place  at  New  Hamburg,  about  two 
miles.     I  was  not  at  all  tired. 

One  day  toward  spring,  when  we  were  at  school,  while 
the  river  was  still  frozen,  Jack  and  I  got  leave  to  walk  up 
to  Danskammer.  My  mother  had  left  a  cook  in  our  house 
and  John  Bush  was  there  and  a  man  named  Matt  Maston, 
a  farm-hand  on  the  place.  After  dinner  we  were  to  drive 
back,  but  thought  it  would  be  dull  to  return  in  a  wagon, 
and  there  was  no  sleighing,  so  we  begged  John  Bush  to 
take  us  back  in  the  sleigh  on  the  ice.  He  did  not  think  it 
very  safe,  but  we  got  Alatt  Maston  to  walk  ahead  of  us 
with  a  long  pole  with  which  to  sound  the  ice.  John  Bush 
drove  Bess  and  Charley;  they  had  broken  through  the 
ice  the  winter  before  and  were  still  a  little  nervous  on 
the  river,  but  we  did  not  mind.  We  sent  Maston  ahead 
with  his  pole,  and  after  he  had  gone  about  three  miles  he 
reported  that  it  was  quite  safe,  and  that  he  need  go  no 
farther  with  us,  so  he  went  home.  It  was  a  warm  day  and 
the  ice  was  rather  soft,  but  we  went  merrily  on,  suspecting 
nothing,  when  suddenly  the  ice  broke !  The  horses  began 
to  plunge — they  wTrc  a  pair  of  fine,  spirited  animals — 
and  the  sleigh  sank  down,  but  the  horses  managed  to  pull 
it  out  onto  firm  ice.  We  got  out  and  walked  cautiously 
ahead  and  found  that  the  ice  would  scarcely  bear  us,  that 
it  was  all  honeycombed  and  one  could  almost  stick  one's 



finger  through  it,  so  we  returned  and  told  John  Bush  that 
he  would  have  to  drive  back  the  way  we  had  come  over 
the  crack,  and  go  ashore.  John  didn't  like  the  prospect, 
neither  did  the  horses,  who  had  by  this  time  grown  very 
much  excited.  We  did  not  get  into  the  sleigh  again,  but 
walked  along,  watching  John.  He  got  in,  laid  the  whip 
on  the  horses,  and  they  went  at  a  gallop  bounding  over 
the  crack.  They  got  safely  over,  but  the  sleigh  sank 
down  and  we  thought  that  it  was  gone,  but  the  horses 
pulled  it  out.  A  little  farther  on  we  managed  to  get 
ashore;  but  at  that  time  there  was  no  road  there,  and  we 
had  to  drive  about  three  miles  over  bare  ground,  old  stone 
walls,  and  rocks.  At  last  we  reached  home,  had  the  horses 
put  in  a  wagon,  and  drove  back  to  Newburgh.  By  the 
time  we  reached  there  all  the  ice  in  the  river,  that  we  had 
been  on  a  few  hours  before,  was  broken  up  and  floating 

Horses  have  always  been  one  of  the  great  interests  of 
my  life.  After  the  memorable  occasion  when  Commodore 
Salter  put  me  on  his  bay  horse,  I  rode  whenever  I  had  the 
chance.  I  have  a  faint  memory  of  a  ride  up  Soap  Hill  on 
one  of  the  carriage-horses,  a  bay — and  this  miscellaneous 
riding  went  on  for  some  years,  until  finally,  when  I  was 
about  fourteen,  I  found  myself  practically  the  owner  of  a 
good  horse,  as  no  one  used  him  except  myself.  He  really 
was  a  driving-horse  that  my  brother  Jack  bought  from  a 
neighbor,  Sam  Halsey,  a  nice  active  little  bay  horse  named 
Bill,  fifteen  hands  high.  The  reason  I  got  him  was 
that  Jack's  first  drive  with  him  turned  out  badly.  Jack 
started  out  one  evening  with  his  new  horse,  wagon,  and 
whip,  and  returned  home  on  foot  with  nothing  but  his 
whip,  leaving  the  rest  of  his  equipage  scattered  over  the 



road.  He  had  been  run  into.  Bill  had  run  home  into 
the  stable.  Jack  said  he  would  never  drive  him  again,  so 
I  rode  him  steadily  for  several  years.  He  was  a  perfect 
little  saddle-horse.  I  once  rode  him  from  Danskammer 
to  Goshen  and  back — in  all  fifty-four  miles — and  I  do  not 
remember  that  either  Billy  or  I  was  at  all  tired.  The 
use  of  this  horse  practically  made  a  good  rider  of  me. 
Another  horse  I  rode  was  a  black  pony  that  Gouv  and  I 
bought  together,  but  he  was  never  much  good,  and  finally 
fell  into  the  spring  and  got  drowned. 

Newbold  Morris,  a  great  friend  of  mine — he  gave  me 
the  ring  I  always  wear — was  in  the  habit  of  riding  up  to 
Danskammer  on  horseback.  On  one  occasion  he  stopped 
there  for  a  day  or  two  and  I  went  on  with  him  to  Hyde 
Park,  where  we  stayed  with  his  uncle,  Mr.  Tom  Newbold. 
I  rode  a  little  bay  horse  called  Ruby,  and  Newbold  a 
gray  mare.  We  met  there  a  Miss  Eleanor  Jones,  an  heiress 
and  a  very  nice  girl.  In  a  few  days  I  came  home,  leaving 
Newbold  at  Hyde  Park,  and  shortly  after  he  turned  up 
again  at  our  house,  riding  another  horse — he  was  a  great 
horse-jockey  and  had  traded  his  mare  for  a  cream-colored 
nag — with  the  news  that  he  was  engaged  to  Miss  Jones ! 
Newbold  was  awfully  good-looking. 

Time  passed  on,  I  graduated  at  college  and  went  abroad, 
and  had  some  nice  rides  in  Madeira,  and  about  a  year  after 
my  return,  having  spent  a  winter  studying  law  in  New 
York,  of  which  more  anon,  I  returned  to  Danskammer, 
deciding  to  study  law  in  Newburgh  in  the  office  of  Has- 
brouck  and  Taylor,  and  ride  back  and  forth  on  horseback. 
It  is  seven  miles  from  the  Danskammer  house  to  New- 
burgh, fourteen  miles  to  go  and  return,  but  the  first  six 
months  I  only  missed  one  day,  when  the  snow  was  so  deep 



in  our  avenue  that  my  mare  stuck  and  could  not  get 
through.  Indeed,  during  those  two  years  of  1861  and  1862 
I  scarcely  missed  a  day.  Rain  or  shine,  snow  or  whatever 
the  weather  might  be,  I  went  and  came.  Very  early  every 
morning  John  Bush  w^ould  come  into  my  room  to  light  the 
fire,  usually  remarking  that  it  was  "as  cold  as  Egypt." 
Gouv  and  I  breakfasted  by  the  bright  coal-fire  in  the  din- 
ing-room and  I  would  be  in  Newburgh  bj'  nine  o'clock. 
I  read  law,  copied  papers  and  such  things,  and  lunched  at 
the  baker's,  or  went  to  the  grocer's  for  some  bread  and 
cheese;  sometimes  Mr.  Hasbrouck  would  ask  me  to  his 
pleasant  house  for  lunch  or  dinner. 

My  mount  was  a  chestnut  known  as  "Holden's  Mare" 
— she  never  had  any  other  name — but  she  was  not  really 
my  horse  any  more  than  Bill  had  been.  In  fact,  she 
was  another  inheritance  from  Jack.  She  belonged  to 
Holden,  who  kept  the  steamboat  dock  at  Marlborough, 
and  the  first  time  I  saw  her  was  up  at  Jew's  Creek  near 
the  dock,  where  Gouv  and  I  were  rail-shooting.  We  spoke 
of  her  to  Jack  with  so  much  admiration  that  he  finally 
bought  her,  but  when  he  got  her  he  didn't  like  her  and 
lent  her  to  me;  as  no  one  ever  used  her  except  myself,  she 
was  like  my  own  horse.  She  had  a  beautiful  fast  trot;  I 
once  rode  her  the  six  miles  from  Newburgh  to  the  hickory- 
tree  at  the  head  of  our  road  in  eighteen  minutes.  I  only 
had  two  falls  from  her.  One  frosty  morning  John  Bush 
forgot  to  draw  the  girths  tight  and  the  saddle  turned  as 
I  put  my  foot  in  the  stirrup,  and  the  mare  went  careering 
off  to  the  stable,  leaving  me  flat  on  my  back  on  the  lawn. 
The  other  time  was  due  to  a  habit  she  had  of  passing 
vehicles  on  a  dead  run;  as  I  rode  up  behind  Dan  Barnes 
she  broke  into  a  gallop,  caught  her  left  leg  on  his  wheel, 



and  we  all  went  headlong.  She  was  hard  to  mount,  too, 
and  always  started  on  a  gallop  as  soon  as  I  got  my  foot 
into  the  stirrup,  but  barring  these  Httle  peculiarities 
"Holden's  Mare"  was  very  fine. 




"Broadway,  the  first  that  takes  the  eye, 
The  noblest  street  I  here  espy. 
The  new-swept  side-walks,  neat  and  clean, 
With  poplars  shaded,  sweet  and  green; 
The  num'rous  steeples  tow'ring  high. 
Seen  best  from  ships  when  passing  by 
And  when  descending  Hudson  bold; 
The  City  Hotel  we  behold, 
Commercial  next,  and  old  Tontine." 

— Thomas  Eaton. 

When  I  was  a  little  boy  about  six  or  seven  I  went  with 
my  mother  to  stay  at  Mrs.  Plummer's  boarding-house,  No. 
65  Broadway,  near  Rector  Street.  Mrs.  Plummer  was  a 
fine  old  lady,  quite  a  friend  of  my  mother,  and  her  house 
was  perhaps  the  best  of  its  kind  in  New  York.  It  was 
more  hke  a  family  hotel  than  a  boarding-house,  very  well 
kept,  the  food  delicious,  and  the  very  nicest  people  stayed 
there.  I  remember  the  long,  handsome  table,  shining  with 
bright  linen  and  silver,  with  Mrs.  Plummer's  portly  figure 
at  the  head  and  Miss  Ehza  Plummer  at  the  foot.  Miss 
Eliza  afterward  married  Mr.  Pritchard,  a  fine-looking 
man  and  very  much  of  a  gentleman;  he  was  a  boarder  at 
that  time.  Another  boarder  was  a  Mr.  Albert  Speyer,  a 
dashing,  interesting  man,  who  told  me  captivating  stories 
of  the  wild  West.  He  was  a  great  traveller,  a  friend  of 
Fremont,  the  explorer  of  the  West,  who  was  afterward 
candidate  for  President  against  Buchanan. 

I  remember  Mr.  Speyer  giving  me  a  half  a  dollar  that 



I  kept  as  a  pocket-piece  for  a  long  while,  as  half-dollars 
were  not  plenty  with  me,  but  one  day  I  wanted  very  much 
to  go  to  the  American  Institute  Fair,  held  in  the  Castle 
Garden  at  the  Battery,  which  at  that  time  stood  out  in 
the  water,  as  the  ground  had  not  then  been  filled  in  around 
it  as  it  is  now.  This  fair  was  an  annual  event  in  New  York 
and  every  one  went  to  it.  Well,  I  wanted  to  go  there  with 
some  other  boys  and  had  no  money  for  a  ticket  except 
that  half-dollar,  so  although  it  was  a  sore  trial  to  part  with 
it,  I  used  it  for  my  ticket.  I  have  no  remembrance  of 
what  we  saw  or  did  there;  the  only  thing  I  remember  is 
my  pang  at  parting  with  my  half-dollar.  The  Castle  Gar- 
den, originally  a  fort,  was  later  fitted  up  as  a  place  for  all 
sorts  of  entertainments.  Jenny  Lind  sang  there,  and  when 
La  Fayette  made  his  triumphal  return  to  America  it  was 
here  they  gave  him  a  reception. 

There  was  an  old  gentleman  at  Mrs.  Plummer's,  Mr. 
Phoenix,  whose  face  wore  the  "livery  of  good  living,"  and 
who  was  very  kind  to  me.  He  would  often  take  me  by 
the  hand  and  we  would  go  together  to  his  store,  a  whole- 
sale grocery-store  in  some  near-by  street,  which  I  found  a 
delightful  place.  I  liked  the  nice  smells  of  the  coffee  and 
sugar,  and  the  figs  and  nuts  with  which  he  used  to  regale 
me.  A  great  pet  of  mine  was  a  large  gray  cat  of  his  that 
would  lie  curled  up  on  top  of  the  bags.  Mr.  Phoenix  was 
a  member  of  the  well-known  New  York  family  of  that 
name,  and,  like  many  gentlemen  of  those  days,  combined 
banking  with  importing  wine,  coffee,  and  other  groceries. 

Broadw^ay  at  that  time  from  the  City  Hall  Park  down 
to  the  Battery  was  handsomely  built  up  with  hotels  and 
dwelling-houses.  Old  Trinity  Church  was  being  built  then. 
Opposite  Mrs.  Plummer's  was  the  Globe  Hotel;  farther  up 
on  the  east  side  on  the  corner  of  Cedar  Street  was  the  City 



Hotel,  where  my  mother  sometimes  stayed,  one  of  the  best 
hotels  in  New  York.  Below  on  the  west  side  of  Broadway 
was  the  large  house  with  two  lions  in  front  of  it,  one  on 
each  side  of  the  steps,  which  was  afterward  occupied  by 
the  British  consul.  These  hons  remained  there  until  a 
year  or  so  ago.  On  the  east  side,  facing  the  Bowling 
Green,  the  block  now  occupied  by  the  Custom  House, 
were  handsome  large  brick  and  stone  houses,  occupied  by 
leading  citizens — among  them  were  the  Primes  and  Whit- 
neys — while  around  the  corner  were  other  fine  houses  fac- 
ing the  Battery.  The  Mortons  lived  in  one  of  these. 
The  Battery  at  that  time  was  a  pretty  park,  surrounded 
by  a  wrought-iron  railing,  with  an  iron  gate  at  the  corner 
of  the  Battery  and  Broadway,  where  an  old  apple-woman 
was  stationed  with  a  tempting  array  of  candy,  apples,  and 
oranges.  The  Bowhng  Green  was  also  surrounded,  as  it 
is  now,  by  an  iron  railing.  The  tops  of  the  rails  formerly 
had  crowns  on  them,  which  were  all  broken  off  during  the 
Revolution,  when  the  populace  tore  down  the  leaden  statue 
of  George  HI  that  stood  there.  (I  understand  that  within 
the  last  few  months  this  railing,  an  interesting  relic  of  the 
Revolution,  has  been  taken  down,  and  no  one  knows  what 
has  become  of  it.  Another  historical  memento  that  has 
lately  been  carelessly  injured  is  the  Worth  Monument  on 
Madison  Square,  our  only  memorial  of  the  Mexican  War; 
one  of  the  four  trophies — cannon-balls,  muskets,  etc. — 
which  formerly  stood  on  the  granite  posts  at  the  corners 
of  the  railing  was  lost  when  the  Subway  was  built.  The 
remaining  three  were  replaced  for  a  short  time,  but  then 
they  too  disappeared  and  the  posts  have  stood  unfinished 
ever  since;  the  raihng,  also,  which  is  rather  pleasing  in 
design,  is  in  bad  shape.) 

I  was  allowed  to  go  down  and  play  in  the  Battery  and 



often  patronized  the  old  apple-woman  at  the  corner. 
There  was  a  fountain  in  the  centre  of  the  Bowling  Green 
in  the  form  of  a  pile  of  rocks  about  twenty  feet  in  height. 
The  water  did  not  spurt  up  into  the  air  but  was  so  arranged 
that  it  would  come  out  at  the  top  and  fall  down  in  little 
cascades  over  the  projecting  stones  into  a  large  basin  at 
the  bottom.  In  this  basin  could  be  seen  two  flamingoes. 
I  remember  they  would  stand  on  one  leg,  seemingly  asleep. 
There  were  also  two  pretty  little  deer.  I  don't  think  that 
I  had  ever  seen  a  deer  before;  I  certainly  had  never  seen 
flamingoes.  The  deer  were  small,  tame,  and  very  sweet; 
one  day  I  remember  that  I  bought  some  of  those  little 
Sicilian  oranges  from  the  old  apple-woman  at  the  corner 
and  fed  them  to  the  deer,  who  put  their  noses  eagerly 
through  the  railing,  but  there  was  a  certain  difficulty  in 
regaling  the  deer,  which  added  to  the  interest,  for  although 
they  could  reach  out  and  take  the  oranges  in  their  mouths, 
the  fruit  was  so  hard  and  round  that  they  generally  dropped 
them  and  they  would  roll  down  the  slanting  pavement 
into  the  gutter;  but  I  would  laboriously  pick  them  up  and 
offer  them  again  and  again,  until  they  managed  to  masti- 
cate them. 

In  my  mind's  eye  I  can  see  the  Battery  and  the  Bowl- 
ing Green  exactly  as  they  were  then.  The  old  apple- 
woman's  stall  at  the  gate,  that  flamingo  poised  on  his  one 
leg  in  the  basin  of  the  fountain,  the  two  little  deer  nosing 
after  the  oranges,  and  myself  laboriously  rescuing  them 
from  the  gutter  and  offering  them  so  persistently.  How 
distinctly  one  sometimes  recalls  a  trifling  memory  like 
this  when  other  events  of  real  moment  are  forgotten ! 

Not  long  after  this,  when  I  was  still  a  very  small  boy, 
I  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  my  Aunt  Margaret  Salter,  who 
lived  in  West  Fourteenth  Street,  near  Sixth  Avenue.     Aunt 



Margaret  was  the  wife  of  Commodore  William  Dayton 
Salter,  of  the  United  States  navy.  She  was  a  dear  soul; 
I  have  never  known  any  one  more  kind  and  generous. 
She  was  highly  educated,  fond  of  reading  and,  hke  all  my 
uncles  and  aunts,  an  excellent  talker.  Aunt  Margaret 
told  me  that  when  she  was  with  my  father.  Aunt  Rose, 
and  Uncle  Charles,  she  heard  the  best  and  most  amusing 
conversation  of  her  life.  As  she  spoke  beautiful  French, 
she  made  herself  very  agreeable  to  the  foreign  visitors 
whom  she  entertained  at  the  Brooklyn  Navy  Yard  when 
her  husband  was  commandant.  While  he  was  at  sea  she 
lived  either  in  New  York  or  Elizabeth.  General  Win- 
field  Scott  lived  in  Elizabeth  and  was  a  great  friend  of  my 
aunt's.  I  believe  they  were  the  last  couple  in  America 
who  could  dance  the  minuet.  The  general  was  an  enor- 
mous man,  about  six  feet  four,  and  large  in  proportion, 
always  very  kind,  pohte,  and  stately.  I  used  often  to 
meet  him  going  up  the  river  on  the  Mary  Powell  and  have 
a  little  chat  with  him. 

The  commodore  was  a  typical  sea-captain  of  the  old 
school;  an  excellent  sailor,  a  most  capable  man,  and  very 
decided,  not  to  say  pig-headed,  in  all  his  ideas.  He  was 
short,  with  a  ruddy,  clean-shaven  face.  He  once  told  me 
that  he  taught  all  his  midshipmen  to  shave  with  both 
hands,  so  that  in  case  they  were  wounded  they  could  still 
shave !  He  went  to  sea  as  midshipman  at  the  age  of  ten. 
There  were  no  naval  schools  in  those  days;  they  got  their 
education  at  sea,  and  I  fancy  they  did  not  teach  them 
much  apart  from  seamanship,  for  the  commodore  often 
complained  that  he  was  inferior  to  his  wife  in  accomphsh- 
ments.  He  was  only  twelve  when  he  got  into  his  first  sea- 
fight — the  famous  battle  between  the  Constitution  and  the 
Guerriere  in  the  War  of  1812 — and  was  also  in  the  cele- 



brated  stern  chase  of  the  Constitution,  the  "most  exciting 
in  naval  annals,"  when  she  escaped  from  the  British  fleet 
in  the  fog.  Mr.  Dana  painted  an  excellent  picture  of  the 
chase,  getting  all  the  facts  for  his  work  from  the  commo- 
dore, and  gave  him  a  photograph  of  it,  framed  in  a  bit  of 
wood  from  the  Constitution,  which  my  son  Noel  has  at 
Danskammer.  The  last  foreign  service  of  the  Constitution 
was  the  transport  of  American  products  to  the  Paris  Expo- 
sition of  1878,  which  makes  a  link  between  me  and  the 
famous  old  ship. 

When  the  commodore  was  young,  duelling  was  still  very 
popular;  he  told  me  that  there  were  frequent  duels  in  the 
cockpit  among  the  midshipmen,  and  described  to  me  a 
duel  that  he  had  fought  with  another  officer  at  Naples. 
I  spoke  of  this  duel  once  to  Loyall  Farragut,  who  told  me 
that  it  was  historic  in  the  navy  and  that  he  had  seen  it 
mentioned  in  some  book.  It  seems  that  the  Queen  of 
Naples  visited  the  ship,  and  after  she  had  left,  my  uncle 
remarked  that  she  was  a  handsome  and  agreeable  lady;  a 
fellow  officer  denied  this  vigorously,  asserting  that  she  was 
ugly  and  ill-favorcd.  This  was  cause  enough  for  a  duel, 
so  one  was  fought  and  young  Salter  shot  his  opponent  in 
the  hip.     He  said  to  me:  "I  met  him  the  other  day  in  an 

omnibus;  we  are  now  the  best  of  friends,  and  by  G he 

limps  yet!"  This  seemed  to  give  him  great  satisfaction 
after  fifty  or  sixty  years. 

In  1 84 1  Captain  Salter  was  put  in  command  of  the 
first  steamship  in  the  nav}-,  the  Mississippi.  Steam  was 
considered  a  very  hazardous  experiment,  and  my  uncle 
said  that  "it  was  only  when  he  looked  aloft  at  the  sails 
and  yards  that  he  felt  at  home."  In  a  letter  to  my  aunt 
he  says:  "She  is  a  large  ship,  120  feet  long  and  46  wide.  I 
have  two  ten-inch  guns  now  mounted  and  four  eight-inch; 



I  suppose  the  others  will  be  forthcoming  soon.  I  shall 
have  a  heavy  battery.  The  ship  will  be  all  legs  and  arms, 
she  really  looms  hke  a  seventy-four.  The  engine  is  six 
hundred  horse  power,  the  stack  or  furnace  pipe  as  big  in 
proportion  as  our  little  church  steeple.  We  have  much 
running  ice,  lots  of  snow  and  visitors,  the  latter  interfere 
much  with  our  work;  a  boat-load,  principally  petticoats, 
is  coming  alongside  now." 

The  commodore  had  met  many  distinguished  people, 
among  them  Napoleon,  who  once  came  aboard  his  ship  in 
the  Mediterranean,  and  Byron  also  visited  the  Constitu- 
tion. I  used  to  like  to  hear  him  talk  about  them,  and 
about  his  adventures  in  South  American  waters  when  he 
was  in  command  of  the  Brazil  squadron.  I  stayed  with 
Aunt  Margaret  very  often  at  the  Brooklyn  Navy  Yard 
when  the  commodore  was  commandant  there.  They  had 
a  fine  garden  and  a  large  fig-tree  that  lived  for  many  years, 
and  even  bore  figs,  by  being  covered  with  straw  in  winter. 

But  we  have  got  very  far  away  from  that  first  visit  of 
mine  to  Aunt  Margaret  in  New  York.  Commodore  Salter 
was  very  kind  and  took  me  to  the  theatre  at  Niblo's  Garden. 
The  play  was  "Beauty  and  the  Beast."  It  was  my  first 
play.  I  don't  remember  much  about  it  except  the  great 
impression  the  terrific  beast  made  on  me,  and  where  he 
changes  into  the  prince  and  drops  his  disguise  it  was  most 
thrilling.  The  dead  beast  lay  on  the  stage  in  a  round 
heap.  I  remember  him  distinctly,  looking  exactly  hke  the 
old  buff'alo-robes  that  we  had  in  the  stable  at  home  for 
sleighing.  Another  treat  was  a  feast  on  sponge-cake 
bought  for  me  by  the  commodore  during  a  walk  around 
the  block,  down  Fifth  Avenue,  through  Sixth  Avenue  and 
so  home,  which  I  recall  with  httle  pleasure,  for  that  eve- 
ning I  was  taken  very  ill  and  had  the  doctor,  and,  indeed, 



was  not  expected  to  live.  While  I  was  lying  ill,  supposed 
to  be  asleep,  I  heard  my  Aunt  Margaret  trying  to  console 
my  mother  by  saying  the  usual  things — that  even  if  I  died 
it  would  be  **all  for  the  best" — when  to  their  surprise  I 
suddenly  sat  up  in  bed  and  remarked:  **If  I  am  going  to 
die  now  what  was  the  use  of  my  ever  having  been  born?" 
Later  Aunt  Margaret  moved  to  a  house  which  is  still 
standing,  next  to  the  garden  of  the  large  Van  Beuren  house 
in  West  Fourteenth  Street;  it  has  a  bay  window  overlook- 
ing their  garden,  and  is  now  almost  the  only  dwelling, 
except  the  Van  Beuren  house,  on  the  block.  At  that  time 
Fifth  Avenue  from  Sixteenth  Street  to  Washington  Square 
was  the  most  fashionable  part  of  New  York — there  were 
practically  no  shops  in  that  neighborhood,  from  1849  to 
1853,  except  Cook's  grocery -store,  on  the  corner  of  Thir- 
teenth Street  and  Fifth  Avenue,  where  the  Heckschers' 
house  was  built  later — but  there  were  still  primitive  spots. 
On  the  site  of  the  Van  Beuren  house  stood  a  very  pretty 
little  wooden  colonial  house,  painted  white,  two  stories, 
with  a  green  door  and  brass  knocker,  approached  by  two 
flights  of  curving  wooden  steps.  In  front  of  it  was  a  large 
balm  of  Gilead  tree  and  a  pump  then  in  use,  and  I  have 
often  seen  large  white  sows  asleep  in  the  gutter  on  the 
corner  of  Fourteenth  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue.  Indeed, 
pigs  roamed  all  the  streets  of  the  city  at  that  time.  The 
site  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  was  then  occupied  by  a 
road-house,  a  cottage,  and  outbuildings  called  Corporal 
Thompson's,  and  back  of  it  was  a  green  paddock  and  open 
field  running  down  to  Sixth  Avenue.  I  have  seen  a  cow 
looking  over  a  pair  of  bars  on  the  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue 
and  Twenty-third  Street.  Moses  H.  Grinnell  lived  on  the 
corner  of  Fourteenth  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue,  and  the 
Haights  and  the  Parkers  built  handsome  houses  on  the 



corners  of  West  Fifteenth  Street  and  the  Avenue.  The 
Grfnnell  house  was  later  occupied  by  Delmonico.  The 
August  Belmonts  lived  between  Thirteenth  and  Fourteenth 
Streets,  the  Heckschers  nearly  opposite,  then  came  Mr. 
Lenox,  and  on  the  opposite  corner  of  Twelfth  Street  the 

Directly  opposite  Niblo's  Garden  was  Pat  Hearn's 
notorious  gambhng-house,  a  very  celebrated  and  fashion- 
able resort  for  the  sporting  fraternity.  It  was  a  very 
quiet-looking  brownstone  house,  always  tightly  closed, 
with  the  blinds  drawn  down.  Right  around  the  corner,  in 
Houston  Street,  J.  C.  Bancroft  Davis  and  William  Robin- 
son lived  a  httle  later  than  this,  and  when  Thackeray 
visited  America  he  stayed  with  them  there.  The  Metro- 
pohtan  Hotel  was  on  Broadway  in  front  of  Niblo's  Garden, 
and  was  one  of  the  most  famous  hotels  in  New  York. 
St.  Thomas's  Church  was  on  the  corner  of  Houston  Street 
and  Broadway.  Mrs.  Eades's  boarding-house  was  next  to 
the  church,  and  next  to  that  were  the  rooms  where  the 
American  Art  Union  used  to  exhibit,  and  where  later  the 
Academy  of  Design  exhibitions  were  held  before  they  built 
their  new  building  at  the  corner  of  Twenty-third  Street 
and  Fourth  Avenue.  Maillard's  was  next  door  to  Mrs. 
Eades's,  and  Laura  Keene's  theatre  was  opposite.  Later 
than  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing,  I  saw  Wilham  Burton, 
the  most  famous  comedian  of  his  day,  in  his  theatre  in 
Chambers  Street,  opposite  the  City  Hall  Park.  The  same 
building  was  occupied  for  many  years  by  the  United  States 
District  Court,  where  I  was  admitted  to  practice  about 
1866,  and  where  I  practised  law.  Judge  Betts  was  then 
on  the  bench,  his  son  was  clerk  of  the  court,  and  George 
Morton,  Mrs.  Shippen's  father,  was  United  States  com- 
missioner.    They  all  had  offices  in  this  building. 



In  1848  I  first  knew  of  Brooks's  clothing-store,  on  the 
corner  of  Catherine  and  Cherry  Streets.  I  was  then  twelve 
years  old  and  was  very  proud  to  hear  that  I  was  to  go  to 
Brooks's  for  a  new  suit.  I  remember  it  well;  the  trousers 
were  light  gray  with  a  stripe  on  the  side  of  dark  gray,  the 
jacket  a  bkie  roundabout  with  brass  navy  buttons.  I 
think  that  Brooks  was  the  pioneer  of  ready-made  clothes. 
I  don't  think  that  any  one  before  that  ever  bought  any 
good  ready-made  things;  clothes  wTre  all  made  to  order 
by  regular  private  tailors.  Previous  to  this  visit  to  Brooks's 
my  clothes  were  made  at  Danskammer  by  my  mother's 
dressmaker,  Mrs.  de  Groot  from  Marlborough,  who  came 
in  by  the  day.  I  remember  her  making  mc  a  pair  of  trou- 
sers of  gray  cloth,  the  color  of  the  West  Point  cadets.  I 
liked  the  cloth  well  enough,  but  they  were  strapped  down 
with  leather  straps  that  I  abhorred.  The  first  time  I  wore 
them  I  went  to  church  at  Marlborough,  and  as  soon  as  I 
came  home  I  took  my  straps  out  on  the  lawn  where  the 
dogs  had  dug  a  hole  and  buried  them.  They  were  never 
found  and  troubled  me  no  more.  At  the  time  I  got  my 
Brooks  suit  I  also  had  a  pair  of  patent-leather  low  shoes 
made  by  Sales,  a  fashionable  bootmaker  in  Houston  Street 
near  Broadway.  These  shoes  were  interesting  to  me,  as 
before  that  my  shoes  had  been  made  by  Atwood  in  New- 
burgh,  and  were  not  like  Sales's,  which  were  very  smart 
and  went  well  with  my  new  suit.  But  I  was  inordinately 
proud  of  a  pair  of  boots  with  red  tops  that  Atwood  made 
for  me;  I  used  to  stuff  my  trousers  inside  the  tops  and 
exhibit  them  on  all  occasions. 

I  seem  to  remember  more  about  the  clothes  of  1848 
than  I  do  about  its  politics,  but  my  friend  Mr.  Bosworth, 
of  Springfield,  has  a  better  memory,  and  recited  to  mc  a 
campaign  song  of  that  date  which  he  used  to  sing  as  a  boy. 



I  fancy  ft  has  never  been  published.  Cass  was  Zachary 
Taylor's  opponent  in  the  presidential  contest  and  "Van" 
was,  of  course,  President  Van  Buren.  The  '* Barn-burners" 
were  so  radical  that  they  were  said  to  be  willing  to  *'burn 
their  barns  to  destroy  the  rats."  The  *' Locos"  took  their 
name  from  an  incident  at  Tammany  Hall,  when  all  the 
lights  being  extinguished,  the  meeting  went  on  with  the 
aid  of  "loco-foco"  matches  provided  in  anticipation  of  the 

"Uncle  Sam's  White  House  is  a  very  fine  station 
For  any  man  to  have  and  attend  to  the  nation. 
And  many  men  came  to  the  door  and  knocked, 
And  Uncle  Sam  sung  while  the  door  was  locked, 

'Who's  that  knocking  at  the  door? 

Is  that  you,  Zac?'     *No,  'tis  Cass!' 

'Well  you  ain't  Santa  Anna  and  you've  got  no  pass. 

So  there's  no  use  your  knocking  at  the  door 

Any  more! 

There's  no  use  your  knocking  at  the  door!' 

Next  the  Barn-burners  came,  with  the  Locos  in  their  ranks. 
And  Uncle  Sam  laughed  at  their  foolish  pranks, 
For  they  brought  Matty  Van,  who  had  been  there  before, 
And  Uncle  Sam  sung,  as  they  knocked  at  the  door, — 

'  Is  that  you,  Zac  ? '     '  No,  'tis  Van  ! ' 

'Well,  you  can't  come  in,  you're  a  used-up  man! 

And  there's  no  use  your  knocking  at  the  door 

Any  more ! 

There's  no  use  your  knocking  at  the  door!' 

Next  the  People  came,  with  the  brave  old  chief. 
Whose  brow  was  decked  with  a  warrior's  wreath. 
He  walked  right  up,  as  he  did  to  the  foe. 
And  knocked  like  a  soldier  in  Mexico. 

And  Uncle  Sam  said,  'Is  that  you,  Zac? 

Well,  walk  right  in,  for  you've  never  turned  back ! 

And  there's  no  use  your  knocking  at  the  door 

Any  more ! 

There's  no  use  your  knocking  at  the  door!"* 


NEW  YORK   WHEN    I    WAS   A   BOY 

It  was  some  statesman  of  about  this  time,  though  I 
cannot  remember  his  name,  who  was  responsible  for  a  bit 
of  repartee  familiar  in  my  youth.  He  said  to  an  opponent 
in  the  House — he  must  have  been  a  refined  old  party: 
"Sir,  you  are  not  fit  to  carry  guts  to  a  bear."  This  odd 
statement  not  being  relished,  he  was  told  that  he  must 
apologize;  whereupon  he  amended  it  by  saying:  "Sir,  I 
apologize,  you  are  fit  to  carry  guts  to  a  bear." 

My  mother  and  I  used  sometimes  to  visit  my  godfather, 
Mr.  Maitland,  at  his  house,  41  Barclay  Street.  He  was 
the  head  of  the  firm  of  Maitland,  Kennedy  and  Company, 
of  No.  14  Stone  Street,  later  Maitland,  Phelps,  and  now 
Maitland,  Coppel  and  Company.  They  have  been  bank- 
ers for  over  a  hundred  years  and  my  family  have  had  an 
account  there  since  1830. 

At  the  time  I  visited  in  Barclay  Street  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood near  the  City  Hall  park  was  a  residential  section. 
Columbia  College  was  near  by,  and  the  Astor  House  was 
the  best  hotel  in  the  city.  St.  Paul's  Church  looked  much 
as  it  does  now.  The  old  City  Hall  was  the  only  building 
in  the  park,  with  Barnum's  Museum  nearly  opposite. 
Barnum's  Museum  was  then  of  white  marble,  with  oval 
pictures  of  wild  animals  all  over  its  front,  and  there  was 
a  balcony  about  half-way  up  the  front  where  musicians 
played.  This  building  was  burned  later.  There  were  all 
sorts  of  fake  curiosities  there — the  "Woolly  Horse,"  the 
"What  is-it?"  advertised  thus:  "Oh  what  is  it?  Is  it 
man  or  monkey?  It  was  discovered  in  the  wilds  of  Africa 
and  may  be  seen  at  all  hours."  It  was  simply  an  idiot 
boy.  They  also  had  "real  mermaids"  and  the  Siamese 
twins.  The  latter  were  genuine  objects  of  curiosity.  Mr. 
William  R.  Travers  once  went  to  see  them  and  Barnum 
himself  showed   him  around  and   introduced   him   to  the 



twins.  Mr.  Travers  put  up  his  eyeglass  and,  after  examin- 
ing them  carefully,  said  in  his  stuttering  voice:  "B-B-B- 
Brothers,  I  presume?"  Mr.  Travers  was  a  very  amusing 
and  witty  man,  and  stuttered  just  enough  to  make  his 
remarks  more  entertaining.  His  funny  sayings  were  mani- 
fold, and  his  manner  and  action  most  amusing.  He  owned 
some  of  the  finest  race-horses  of  the  day,  in  partnership 
with  Leonard  Jerome.  Years  after  the  time  I  am  now 
writing  about,  I  remember  coming  back  from  a  race-meeting 
of  the  Narragansett  course  with  him.  We  embarked  on 
a  boat  from  Providence  to  Newport.  Mr.  Travers  was 
standing  on  the  dock,  high  above  the  deck  of  the  boat,  as 
the  tide  there  falls  several  feet,  and  there  was  a  man  on 
the  boat  with  a  basket  of  beer  in  those  round-bottomed 
bottles  that  will  not  stand  up.  Mr.  Travers  asked  the 
man  to  throw  him  some  and  Mr.  Travers  caught  them  one 
by  one,  putting  the  first  under  his  left  arm,  the  next  under 
his  right,  two  between  his  legs,  and  finally  one  in  each 
hand,  so  he  had  six  without  setting  one  down — he  looked 
very  funny.  Once  a  man  slapped  him  violently  on  the 
back,  mistaking  him  for  some  one  else,  and  then  exclaimed : 
"I  beg  your  pardon;  I  thought  you  were  my  friend  Jones." 
Mr.  Travers  said:  "D-D-D-Does  your  friend  Jones  I-I-I-Iike 
that  sort  of  thing?"  He  told  of  once  coming  home  after 
a  dinner,  a  little  the  worse  for  wear,  late  at  night,  and  try- 
ing to  creep  into  bed  very  quietly,  not  to  disturb  his  wife, 
but  she  was  awake,  and  just  as  he  was  comfortably  set- 
tled she  remarked — according  to  him:  " W-W-W-William, 
d-d-d-do  you  usually  go  to  bed  w-w-w-with  your  hat  on?" 
But  I  am  getting  too  far  ahead  of  my  period — I  must  not 
forget  that  I  am  still  a  little  boy  in  New  York. 

About  this  time  I  went  with  my  mother  to  pay  a  visit 
to  the  Luquers,  who  Hved  in  a  pretty  country  place  in  the 


NEW   YORK   WHEN    I    WAS  A   BOY 

outskirts  of  Brooklyn;  Mrs.  Luquer  was  a  sister  of  Mrs. 
Stewart  Maitland.  I  remember  that  we  went  to  ehurch 
and  that  I  had  a  new  pair  of  suspenders  of  which  I  was 
very  proud  and  which  I  insisted  on  displaying  by  keeping 
my  jacket  wide  open.  The  cap  which  I  wore  to  church 
on  these  grand  occasions  was  a  Scotch  bonnet,  a  present 
from  my  godfather,  Mr.  Maitland,  shaped  like  a  large 
tam-o'-shanter  but  made  of  velvet  of  the  royal  Stuart 
tartan.  Though  it  was  considered  an  exceedingly  hand- 
some thing,  I  never  liked  it  very  much.  There  were  two 
Luquer  boys,  Nicholas  and  Lea.  (Lea  was  afterward  a 
member  of  the  Century  Club  and  rector  of  the  church  at 
Bedford,  New  York.)  They  had  a  donkey  which  I  rode,  but 
he  had  a  tiresome  habit  of  standing  on  his  fore  legs  and  I 
would  slip  over  his  head. 

My  mother  had  great  charm  and  grace  of  manner,  al- 
though, as  I  remember  her,  she  was  not  handsome;  she 
spoke  French  and  Italian,  and  painted  extremely  well,  as 
may  be  seen  in  a  vohime  of  bound  water-color  drawings 
done  from  nature,  of  flowers  and  fruits  gathered  for  her 
by  my  father.  The  names  are  in  the  handwriting  of  Mr. 
Downing,  the  celebrated  landscape-architect.  These  are 
not  the  conventional  water-colors  of  the  time,  but  realistic 
work,  sensitively  true  to  life. 

In  1849  rny  mother  rented  the  Danskammer  house  to 
Mr.  Warren  Delano  and  we  went  to  live  in  New  York,  at 
12  West  Fourteenth  Street.  In  those  days  there  were  few 
opportunities  for  learning  painting,  but  my  mother  always 
encouraged  my  taste  for  art,  and  as  soon  as  we  went  to 
New  York  she  put  me  to  work  with  Mr.  Coe,  who  was 
about  the  best  teacher  then  to  be  found.  I  worked  in  his 
studio  for  three  years  with  the  greatest  interest.  I  see  now 
that  he  was  not  a  good  artist,  but  he  started  me  so  that  I 



became  fond  of  painting  and  worked  hard.  My  mother 
always  provided  me  with  the  best  colors  and  drawing 
materials,  and  when  I  began  copying  she  would  have  my 
feeble  efforts  framed,  much  to  my  dehght;  although  they 
were  poor  daubs,  I  was  proud  to  see  them  hanging  up 
and  was  encouraged  to  persevere. 

Mr.  Coe's  studio  was  on  the  same  floor  in  the  New 
York  University  where  I  went  to  day-school.  I  don't 
think  that  I  was  a  very  good  scholar;  I  was  bright  enough, 
but  did  not  like  study,  so  I  used  to  play  hooky  and  go 
into  Mr.  Coe's  studio  and  paint.  Mr.  Parker,  the  prin- 
cipal, came  in  one  day  in  school  hours  when  I  should  have 
been  working  in  his  schoolroom,  and  was  surprised  to 
find  me  there  painting.  He  Hked  me,  however;  for  one 
thing,  I  wrote  a  good  hand,  so  every  week  I  was  told  to 
write  out  a  book  for  him,  with  all  the  boys'  names,  with 
six  divisions  after  each  name,  standing  for  the  six  working 
days  of  the  week,  which  Mr.  Parker  would  keep  on  his 
desk  in  front  of  him,  and  if  in  looking  around  the  school- 
room he  spied  any  boy  idling  or  misbehaving,  his  name  was 
given  a  bad  mark  in  the  book.  By  the  irony  of  fate  my 
name  would  be  called  out  and  registered  very  often  in  the 
neat  fist  that  I  had  written  out  so  laboriously.  Mr.  Parker 
was  an  attractive  man  and  I  am  sure  he  was  a  good  school- 
master. I  gave  him  a  good  deal  of  trouble  but  we  were 
fond  of  each  other.  Another  teacher,  Mr.  BuH,  was  good 
at  mathematics  but  poor  in  Enghsh,  I  remember  well, 
because  I  was  once  awfully  fresh  to  him  when  he  used  the 
expression  "get  red  of  a  fraction." 

The  University  Grammar  School  was  on  the  ground 
floor  of  the  old  University  Building,  a  fine  casteflated 
Gothic  edifice,  built  of  white  marble,  on  the  east  side  of 
Washington   Square.     The  College  Department   was   up- 



stairs.     There  were  one  hundred  boys  in  the  First  Depart- 
ment where  I  was  and  a  Primary  Department  of  nearly  as 
many  boys  adjoining  it,  under  the  charge  of  Mr.  Hobby, 
known    as    ** Hobby's";    our    department    was    known    as 
"Parker's."     We   had   a   fme  playground   in   Washington 
Square,  then  called  the  Washington  Parade  Ground  be- 
cause the  annual  parade  of  the  mihtia  was  held  there,  and 
I  well  remember  the  stout  German  militia  officers  dashing 
about  on  their  steeds.     Mr.  Hamilton  Fish  told  mc  Wash- 
ington Parade  Ground  was  formerly  used  as  a  place  for 
public  executions,  and  that  he  once  saw  a  colored  woman 
executed  there  on  the  site  of  what  is  now  the  Washington 
Arch.     Mr.  Janvier,  the  author  of  many  good  stories  about 
the  Washington  Square  neighborhood,  once  in  talking  to 
me  about  it  mentioned  that  Minetta  Creek  formerly  ran 
through  the  square,  which  made  it  damp  and  misty,  and 
that  it  was  also  the  Potters'  Field,  where  they  buried  pau- 
pers and  criminals.     He  added  that  even  now,  on  a  foggy 
evening,  "the  ghosts  of  the  potters  could  be  seen  wander- 
ing about  there."     In  my  day,  notwithstanding  its  grue- 
some origin,  it  was  a  fme  place  for  games  and  foot-races, 
but  most  of  all  for  playing  marbles,  which  was  our  favorite 
game.     I   had  an  intimate  school  friend  named  Jaudon, 
who  lived  at  No.  i  Fifth  Avenue,  and  I  used  to  meet  him 
almost   every   afternoon   to   play   marbles   in   Washington 
Square.     It  was  really  a  gambling  game  in  a  small  way, 
because  the  winner  always  took  and  kept  his  opponent's 
marbles;   these   were   the   ordinary    marbles,    which    were 
pooled  in  the  centre  of  a  circle  and  shot  at  with  "agates," 
all  the  marbles  knocked  out  of  the  ring  belonging  to  the 
shooter.     These   agates   were   ordinarily   painted    marbles, 
worth  one  or  two  cents  each,  known  as  "chancy  agates'* 
or  "chancy  alleys,"  but  there  were  real  "agates"  to  be 



had,  carved  out  of  agate  stone,  that  cost  as  much  as  twenty- 
live  cents  or  more.  So  when  real  "agates"  were  in  the 
ring  in  place  of  common  marbles,  the  game  became  an 
expensive  one.  The  little  Jaudon  boy  was  very  nice  and 
I  was  fond  of  him,  but  he  was  a  better  player  than  I  and 
won  almost  all  my  "agates."  He  was  familiarly  known 
among  boys  as  Billy,  but  that  was  not  his  real  Christian 
name,  and  at  this  distant  day  I  do  not  recall  it.  He  died 
when  very  young. 

A  quaint  old  Irish  candy-man  named  Jimmy  was  a 
frequenter  of  Washington  Parade  Ground.  He  carried  a 
tray,  holding  it  in  both  hands,  supported  by  a  leather  strap 
around  the  back  of  his  neck.  We  had  recess  at  one  o'clock 
and  Jimmy  would  always  be  on  hand  at  that  time  and  had 
excellent  custom.  His  tray  contained  squares  of  molasses 
candy,  white  and  pink  cocoanut-cakes,  and  "all-day 
suckers" — though  I  am  not  sure  we  called  them  by  that 
appropriate  name — round,  of  lemon  candy  with  white 
veins  running  through  them,  and  very  durable.  All  of 
these  were  one  cent  each. 

I  was  a  rather  quarrelsome  boy  and  had  several 
encounters,  although  I  do  not  think  that  I  ever  fought  a 
boy  smaller  than  myself.  There  was  a  boy  at  school  named 
Gabriel  Chevallier;  his  father  was  French  and,  I  think,  an 
instrument -maker.  One  day  when  Chevallier  was  leaning 
his  chair  back  on  its  hind  legs,  I  put  my  foot  under  it  and 
sent  him  backward.  He  said  nothing,  but  a  few  days 
later  he  did  the  same  to  me,  but  I  jumped  up  and  imme- 
diately challenged  him  to  fight,  so  we  selected  our  seconds, 
and  in  recess  met  in  a  square  space  in  the  hall  surrounding 
the  pump,  and  had  a  regular  set-to  of  several  rounds,  but 
he  was  too  much  for  me  and  gave  me  a  black  eye  which 
left  a  httle  mark  on  the  upper  lid  that  remained  there  for 


NEW  YORK   WHEN    I   WAS   A   BO^' 

years.  He  was  declared  the  victor,  but  \vc  were  always 
afterward  good  friends.  It  must  have  been  twenty-five 
years  later  that  I  was  looking  into  Goupil's  window  on 
Fifth  Avenue  and  Twenty-second  Street  when  Chcvallier 
came  up  and  spoke  to  me,  and  we  talked  alxjut  sch(xjl-days 
and  I  asked  if  he  remembered  giving  me  a  black  eye,  but 
from  politeness,  I  suppose,  he  said  that  he  did  not  recall  it. 

In  1852  I  went  to  College  Hill,  near  Poughkeepsic, 
where  my  brother  Gouv  had  been  educated.  This  was 
about  the  best  school  in  the  country,  a  very  large  colonial 
building  on  top  of  a  high  hill,  overlooking  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood, and  surrounded  by  farms  and  large  woods  through 
which  we  were  allowed  to  roam.  I  worked  hard  and 
really  learned  something,  particularly  from  Professor 
Charles  Murray  Nairn,  teacher  of  the  classics,  who  taught 
me  how  to  study  and  became  an  intimate  friend.  After- 
ward I  went  to  his  school  in  New  York.  He  was  a  Scotch- 
man, a  gentleman,  and  a  fine  scholar;  later  he  was  professor 
of  English  literature  at  Columbia.  College  Hill  was  an 
up-to-date  school;  they  had  a  fine  gymnasium  in  a  building 
expressly  arranged  for  it,  at  a  time  when  very  few  other 
schools  had  gymnasiums,  and  in  this  I  worked  hard  and 
laid  the  foundation  of  considerable  physical  endurance 
which  has  served  me  well  all  through  my  life.  Mr.  Charles 
Bartlett,  the  principal,  was  not  a  scholar  himself,  but  had 
the  faculty  of  getting  good  assistants.  He  had  a  peek- 
hole  behind  his  desk  from  which  he  could  look  out  without 
being  seen,  and  a  boy  never  knew  when  he  would  suddenly 
be  pounced  upon.  It  was  good  in  one  way,  because  it 
kept  the  boys  at  work,  but  it  was  generally  thought  to  be 
taking  a  mean  advantage  of  us.  Now  Professor  Nairn  was 
a  gentleman  and  put  the  boys  on  their  honor. 

It  was  while   I  was  at  College  Hill  that  the  steamer 



Henry  Clay  was  burned.  There  used  to  be  great  rivalry 
between  the  various  fast  Hudson  River  boats,  and  when 
this  accident  happened  the  Henry  Clay  wsls  racing  with  the 
Armenia.  The  Clay  took  fire  from  her  overheated  boilers, 
and  the  captain  ran  her  ashore  near  Yonkers,  but  the  pas- 
sengers in  the  stern,  which  was  in  deep  water,  were  cut  off 
from  the  shore  by  the  flames  and  many  of  them  were 
drowned.  Mrs.  Bartlett,  the  wife  of  the  principal  of  our 
school,  was  lost,  and  Miss  Hawthorne,  a  sister  of  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne;  and  also  an  intimate  friend  of  my  mother's, 
Mr.  A.  J.  Downing,  the  celebrated  landscape-architect. 
He  was  a  fine  swimmer  and  rescued  many  people,  acting 
very  gallantly  before  he  himself  went  down.  Another  bad 
river  accident  was  the  loss  of  the  Swallow  in  1845.  She 
struck  on  a  rock  near  Hudson  one  terribly  stormy  winter's 
night,  while  she  was  racing  with  the  Express  and  the 
Rochester,  and  many  lives  wxre  lost. 

I  enjoyed  all  my  school  fife  at  College  Hill.  My  most 
intimate  friend  was  WilHe  Prime;  the  Primes  lived  in  New 
York,  formerly  on  the  corner  of  State  Street  and  the  Bowl- 
ing Green,  and  afterward  in  one  of  those  swell-front  houses 
in  West  Sixteenth  Street.  On  Saturday  afternoons  Bill 
Prime  and  I  would  take  long  walks  together  in  the  woods; 
we  collected  birds'  eggs  and  trapped  and  tamed  squirrels, 
particularly  flying  squirrels.  We  once  got  a  mother  flying 
squirrel  and  a  whole  brood  of  young  ones;  she  would  sit 
with  her  wings  spread  out  over  them  just  hke  a  hen  and 
chickens.  Bill  was  fond  of  all  sorts  of  natural  history  and 
was  especially  interested  in  snakes,  which  he  would  catch 
and  hold  up  by  their  tails,  much  to  my  admiration,  as  I 
could  not  do  anything  except  kill  them — but  this  we  never 
did.  I  had  a  real  love  for  that  boy.  I  did  not  see  much 
of  him  in  later  years,  for  he  was  fond  of  a  wild  life,  and 


NEW   YORK   WHEN    I   WAS  A   BO^' 

shortly  after  left  school  and  went  to  Texas.  He  was  a 
handsome  fellow,  with  winning  ways,  tall,  and,  like  David 
of  old,  ruddy  and  of  a  fair  countenance,  not  only  manly- 
looking  but  manly  and  brave  in  every  way.  He  was  t he- 
father  of  Charlotte  Prime,  who  married  Will  Benjamin,  a 
cousin  of  my  wife's. 

My  mother  died  in  New  York  in  February,  1853. 

I  did  not  go  back  to  College  Hill,  but  returned  to  the 
University  Grammar  School  for  the  rest  of  that  winter 
and  boarded  at  Mrs.  Plummer's  all  by  myself.  She  had 
moved  to  the  southeast  corner  of  Fifteenth  Street  and 
Union  Square,  to  a  house  which  still  stands  and  is  now  part 
of  the  Union  Square  Hotel.  I  was  there  about  a  year,  and 
as  my  brothers  were  at  Danskammer,  I  was  alone. 

Billy  Prime  gave  me  two  red  squirrels  that  I  kept  in  a 
wire  cage  in  my  room  at  Mrs.  Phmimer's;  she  was  so  kind 
that  she  never  objected,  but  it  must  have  been  a  nuisance 
to  have  them  in  a  bedroom.  Mrs.  Plummer  and  her  daugh- 
ter Eliza  were  so  kind  to  me  that  it  was  quite  hke  being 
at  home,  but  it  was  not  a  very  good  plan  to  leave  a  Ixiy 
of  my  age  his  own  master  alone  in  New  "\'ork;  fortunately, 
I  did  not  get  into  any  mischief  and  it  did  me  no  harm. 

In  pleasant  weather  I  occasionally  went  to  Danskam- 
mer, and  whenever  I  felt  like  it  I  paid  a  visit  to  the  Gou- 
vcrneur  Wilkinses  at  Castle  Hill,  where  I  spent  some 
of  the  happiest  days  of  my  childhood,  with  Uncle  Gouv 
and  Aunt  Catherine,  as  I  always  called  them,  although 
they  were  not  really  blood  relations.  As  I  told  you  in  the 
last  chapter,  Gouverneur  Morris  Wilkins's  first  wife  was 
my  mother's  elder  sister,  Mary  Somersall  Ward;  his  second 
wife  w^as  Catherine  Van  Rensselaer.  She  was  always  most 
sweet  and  kind  to  me,  and  I  had  a  standing  invitation  to 
visit  them  whenever  I  liked.     As  I  was  always  welcome  I 



went  there  very  often.  Uncle  Gouv  was  a  splendid-looking 
man,  somewhat  such  a  man  in  appearance  as  Daniel  Web- 
ster, and  of  great  ability,  genial  and  delightful  in  conver- 
sation, a  graduate  of  Yale  and  extremely  well  read.  If  he 
had  been  a  poor  man  and  felt  the  spur  of  necessity  he  would 
have  become  distinguished,  but  he  never  went  in  for  pub- 
lic life  or  any  profession.  Although  he  had  been  a  slave- 
holder he  was  a  Republican  and  a  strong  supporter  and 
admirer  of  Lincoln. 

On  my  visits  at  Castle  Hill  I  usually  drove  with  Uncle 
Gouv  when  he  made  his  morning  rounds.  On  these  occa- 
sions he  himself  always  drove  the  same  large  gray  horse, 
everything  spick  and  span  and  in  perfect  order.  We  w^ould 
first  go  to  the  post-office  in  Westchester  village  and  then 
do  various  errands  in  the  neighborhood,  stopping  to  talk 
with  every  one  he  met,  as  all  his  neighbors  respected  him 
and  liked  to  hear  his  views;  indeed,  I  found  it  part  of  a 
liberal  education  to  hear  him  express  them. 

Castle  Hill  lay  just  at  the  junction  of  Westchester 
Creek  and  the  Sound,  directly  opposite  Zerega  Point,  and 
^  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  in  the  country.  The 
house  was  an  old  one,  having  been  built  by  Uncle  Gouv's 
father  or  grandfather,  and  he  had  made  additions  to  it 
himself  with  taste  and  discrimination.  His  library  was  a 
fine  one,  containing  many  of  my  grandfather  Ward's 
books,  which,  of  course,  when  Uncle  Gouv  died,  went  to 
his  second  wife.  On  her  death  she  left  it  to  Rensselaer 
Cruger,  her  nephew,  but  I  do  not  know  who  now  owns 
these  books  of  my  grandfather's,  that  he  had  brought  from 
England  and  that  had  his  coat  of  arms  as  a  book-plate. 
The  grounds  of  Castle  Hill  were  terraced  dow'n  to  Long 
Island  Sound  and  beautifully  planted,  with  greenhouses  at 
intervals.     I  remember  the  delicious  hothouse  grapes  and 


NEW  YORK   WHEN    I   WAS  A   BO^' 

figs  that  came  from  the  forcing-houses  and  graperies  against 
the  back  of  the  house.  The  dining-room  was  of  fine  pro- 
portions, wainscoted  to  the  ceiling  with  oaken  panels  on 
which  hung  portraits  of  his  father,  his  grandfather,  and 
Uncle  Gouv  himself,  by  Elliot,  and  also  a  portrait  of  Mrs. 
Wilkins  as  a  young  girl  in  a  large  flat  sort  of  light-colored 

Mr.  Wilkins  left  all  his  property,  a  very  great  estate, 
to  his  only  daughter,  Ellen,  the  first  wife  of  John  Screven, 
who  was  without  fortune.  She  died  two  or  three  years 
after  Mr.  Wilkins,  leaving  several  children  (one  of  her 
daughters,  Kitty,  married  Robert  J.  Turnbull  and  had  a 
charming  family  of  sons  and  daughters),  but  bequeathing 
all  her  property  to  her  husband.  Strange  to  say,  when 
Mr.  Screven  died  he  left  almost  all  Mr.  Wilkins's  property 
to  a  daughter  by  his  second  wife  (Miss  Van  Rensselaer), 
w^ho  was,  of  course,  no  relation  to  the  W  ilkinses. 

It  was  odd  that  so  many  of  the  Wilkins  family  con- 
nection should  have  married  Van  Rensselaers  "en  secondc 
noce."  (Kitty  Turnbull  was  once  asked  if  the  Van  Rens- 
selaers were  her  relations;  she  said  no,  they  only  fur- 
nished stepmothers  for  her  family.)  For  besides  Mr. 
Wilkins's  and  Mr.  Screven's  second  wives  (both  Van  Rens- 
selaers), Kitty  Turnbull's  father-in-law,  Doctor  Turnbull, 
chose  a  Miss  Van  Rensselaer  when  he  married  for  the 
second  time.  Mrs.  Wilkins  and  Mrs.  Turnbull  had  always 
said  that  they  would  never  marry  either  widowers  or  slave- 
holders, but  their  husbands  were  both.  Mr.  Wilkins  had 
large  plantations  in  South  Carolina  and  Doctor  Turnbull 
in  Mississippi. 

The  Wilkins  estate  included  Castle  Mill,  containing 
about  three  hundred  acres,  a  large  tract  of  land  immedi- 
ately adjoining  it,  and  several  hundred  city  lots  on  Harlem 



llat,  comprising  the  whole  north  front  on  the  Central  Park, 
on  iioth  Street,  and  the  block  fronting  on  the  Central 
Park  from  io8th  to  109th  Streets,  and  much  other  prop- 
erty besides.  This  Harlem  flat  property  was  a  large  farm 
called  the  "Nutter  Farm,"  which  Uncle  Gouv  inherited 
from  his  mother,  who  was  a  Miss  Nutter.  When  Central 
Park  was  laid  out  four  hundred  lots  were  taken  for  the 
park,  so  the  whole  northern  end  of  the  park  was  once  the 
"Nutter  Farm"  and  belonged  to  Mr.  Wilkins. 

Mr.  Clarence  Davies,  in  a  history  of  Westchester,  does 
not  speak  of  Castle  Hill,  but  in  mentioning  that  section 
of  Westchester  he  remarks  that  there  is  still  standing  (about 
1 91 2)  the  remains  of  a  fine  old  stone  gate.  This  is  evi- 
dently the  gate  of  Castle  Hifl,  all  that  remains  of  that 
lovely  and  important  country  place.  Nor  does  Mr. 
Davies,  I  think,  make  any  reference  to  Gouverneur  Wilkins 
in  his  book,  although  when  I  used  to  visit  there  he  was  one 
of  the  most  distinguished  figures  in  Westchester.  It  made 
me  sad  to  read  that  book  and  realize  that  all  those  times 
are  gone  and  forgotten,  the  only  record  of  Castle  Hill 
being  a  nameless  gate-post  or  two  to  mark  the  site  of  a 
really  historic  and  beautiful  spot. 

The  celebrated  Gouverneur  Morris  of  the  Revolution 
was  Uncle  Gouv's  uncle.  Gouverneur  Morris  was  very 
rich  and  did  not  marry  until  late  in  life.  Uncle  Gouv  was 
his  prospective  heir,  and  there  were  others  who  were  look- 
ing forward  to  inheriting  from  him,  so  they  were  all  dis- 
appointed when  a  son  was  born  to  him  and  their  hopes 
were  blasted.  They  were  discussing  the  name  that  was 
to  be  given  to  the  child— in  the  end  he  was  named  Gou- 
verneur— and  as  at  that  time  there  was  a  famous  general 
in  Russia  named  Kutusoff,  Uncle  Gouv  suggested  that  the 
child  should  be  called  after  this  general,  but  I  dare  say  the 



poorer  relations  did  not  relish  the  pun  as  much  as  he  did  [ 
I  took  a  trip  once  out  to  Morrisania,  the  old  Morris  place 
in  Westchester,  with  my  mother  and  Uncle  Charles,  when 
I  was  a  very,  very  small  boy.  We  went  by  tlie  I  larlem  Rail- 
road, one  of  the  first  railways  in  this  country,  and  Uncle 
made  lots  of  jokes  with  me  about  my  riding  behind  the 
"black  pony,"  as  he  called  the  engine.  There  was  a  de- 
lightful swing  under  a  big  cherry-tree  in  the  grounds  of 
Morrisania,  I  remember. 

To  return  to  New  York.  In  1854  there  were  many 
more  opportunities  for  enterprising  boys  to  enjoy  them- 
selves than  now.  One  favorite  place  for  us  to  play  was 
the  large  vacant  space  between  Seventeenth  Street  and 
TwTnty-third  Street,  which  was  then  mostly  open  pastures 
and  orchards  of  large  old  pear  and  apple  trees.  Daniel 
Giraud  Elliot,  afterward  the  distinguished  ornitholcjgist, 
who  lived  in  his  father's  house  in  East  Fourteenth  Street, 
told  me  a  few  years  ago  that  when  he  used  to  look  out  of 
his  rear  windows  there  was  nothing  in  sight  to  the  north 
but  open  fields.  My  chief  playmates  in  those  days  were 
the  Lathrop  twins,  Frank  and  Ned,  who  lived  in  Seven- 
teenth Street;  with  Albert  and  Walter  Stanton  we  used  to 
go  skating  on  a  pond  in  an  open  common  about  where 
Forty-second  Street  and  Sixth  Avenue  cross. 

A  large  part  of  the  block  on  Twenty-third  Street  be- 
tween Fifth  and  Sixth  Avenues  was  devoted  to  Franconi's 
Hippodrome,  the  first  thing  of  the  kind  on  a  grand  scale 
that  New  York  had  seen.  It  was  really  a  very  fine  circus, 
boasting  real  races  with  race-horses  and  jockeys.  I  was 
fascinated  by  these,  and  spent  all  my  spare  cash  and  most 
of  my  evenings  there.  Union  Square,  where  we  used  to 
skate  on  the  fountain,  was,  of  course,  a  very  dilTerent  place, 
also,  and  it  was  another  of  the  rally ing-places  for  the  boys 



of  the  neighborhood,  among  whom  were  Bobby  Goelet 
and  Elbridge  Gerry.  Gerry  was  a  tall,  awkward  boy, 
the  butt  of  all  the  others.  Doctor  Cheever's  church 
stood  on  the  corner  of  Union  Square  and  Fifteenth  Street, 
where  Tiffany  built  later,  and  where  now  some  sad  sale 
of  rain-coats  or  the  hke  is  usually  in  progress.  For  the  rest, 
there  were  only  dwelhng-houses  around  the  square — Judge 
Kent,  Judge  Ruggles,  and  Mrs.  Parish  hved  there.  When 
I  returned  from  abroad  in  1859  the  Everett  House  had  just 
appeared  on  the  north  side.  About  the  same  time  the 
famous  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel,  on  Madison  Square,  was  fin- 
ished.    Both  are  now  torn  down. 

Morris  Ketchum  lived  on  Gramercy  Park.  His  boys 
were  great  friends  of  mine,  particularly  Frank,  and  we 
used  to  congregate  with  other  boys  in  the  vacant  lot  back 
of  his  house,  where  we  kept  chickens,  invented  all  sorts  of 
games,  and  fought  with  the  rowdies  who  periodically  invaded 
the  lots.  One  day  Charley  Ketchum,  who  was  a  great 
fighter,  had  an  altercation  with  a  rowdy,  and  on  the  latter's 
invitation  we  adjourned  to  a  large  vacant  lot  near  First 
Avenue,  where  Charley  fought  him.  About  a  dozen  of  our 
crowd  went  over,  but  there  must  have  been  one  or  two 
hundred  roughs.  The  lot  was  level  and  sunken,  with  slop- 
ing sides  fined  with  our  enemies;  though  they  played  the 
game  fairly  it  was  a  wonder  we  were  not  all  killed.  There 
were  several  other  Ketchum  boys,  one  of  the  younger  of 
whom,  Landon,  had  his  front  teeth  filed  so  that  he  could 
more  readily  spit  through  them  without  opening  his  jaw. 
The  Ketchums  had  lots  of  horses  and  ponies,  and  their 
stable  in  Fifteenth  Street  was  a  favorite  resort  where  we 
all  went  to  ride  or  drive  the  ponies,  play  games,  and  spar. 
The  fine-looking  colored  coachman,  named  Ben,  as  a  per- 
son of  position  and  authority,  looked  out  for  us,  and  used 


NEW  YORK   WHEN    I   WAS   A   BO^' 

to  be  very  good-natured  about  harnessing  up  ponies  when- 
ever we  wanted  them.  As  I  was  not  accustomed  to  driving, 
I  remember  I  had  some  difiicuhy  in  getting  around  the 

The  Ellises  were  other  schoolmates  that  I  liked  a  great 
deal.  Julius  was  very  handsome,  and  always  beautifully 
turned  out,  while  Sam  dressed  very  badly.  One  winter  he 
wore  no  undercoat,  but  just  a  white  overcoat  buttoned  up 
to  the  chin,  with  no  shirt-collar  showing;  there  was  a  tra- 
dition he  wore  no  shirts !  But  by  fits  and  starts  he  would 
become  a  great  dandy;  I  remember  one  winter,  when  we 
were  all  older,  he  had  a  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons  and  a 
leopard-skin  waistcoat.  Doctor  Ellis  lived  in  Second  Av- 
enue. Later  on  I  used  to  go  there  to  spar  w  ith  Sam,  who 
was  my  particular  friend.  Between  the  rooms  where  wc 
sparred  were  folding-doors  set  with  stained  glass,  and  once 
I  knocked  Sam  right  through  one  of  the  doors  and  broke 
all  the  glass. 

One  night  Sam,  Fred  de  Peyster — usually  known  as 
"Dip" — and  I  were  coming  home  pretty  late  from  a  dance 
in  Washington  Place,  I  don't  remember  whose — I  was 
boarding  at  that  time  in  West  Fourteenth  Street,  at  Mrs. 
Jenks's  boarding-house — when  Sam  and  Dip  espied  a 
freight-wagon  standing  in  University  Place,  opposite  the 
Society  Library,  and  dragged  it  up  to  my  landlady's  house 
and  deposited  it  on  her  front  steps.  What  she  thought  of 
it  I  could  never  find  out  without  seeming  dangerously 

Doctor  Ellis  was  a  graduate  of  West  Point,  and  his  five 
sons  inherited  military  tastes,  so  in  1861  every  one  of  them 
enlisted  in  the  army.  All  were  in  the  battle  of  Bull  Run, 
and  there  the  handsome  Julius,  so  much  admired,  was 
killed;   he   had  a  military  funeral   at  St.   Mark's  Church 



and  a  salute  fired  over  his  grave.  Gus  was  killed  at 
Gettysburg.  Three  of  the  brothers — Julius,  Ash,  and  John 
— were  in  love  with  Julie  Waterbury,  who  after  numer- 
ous competing  proposals  finally  decided  on  John.  Sam 
had  a  nice  turn  for  drawing  and  made  excellent  heraldic 
designs  for  the  coats  of  arms  of  his  friends.  He  had  many 
acquaintances  among  barkeepers,  and  would  invent  gor- 
geously illuminated  armorial  bearings  for  them  to  hang 
up  in  their  barrooms.  He  was  a  most  quaint  and  witty 
fellow,  altogether  delightful. 




"We  sit  beneath  the  orchard  trees, 

We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees 
And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn; 
We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read, 

Their  written  words  we  linger  o'er. 
But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 
No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made. 
No  step  upon  the  unconscious  floor." 

— Whittier. 

One  summer  when  I  was  about  fourteen  my  mother 
blew  off  my  brother  Jack  and  me  to  a  trip  to  Niagara, 
Trenton  Falls,  Saratoga,  and  Lake  George.  It  took  about 
two  weeks.  I  remember  just  how  I  was  dressed.  I  wore 
white  shirts  with  a  collar  turned  over  my  jacket  and  a 
colored  cravat  tied  in  a  bow — we  did  not  have  colored 
shirts  or  scarfs  in  my  day — my  roundabouts  were  buttoned 
up  the  front  with  pearl  buttons,  and  all  my  shirts  were 
made  with  collars  and  cuffs  on  them.  (I  have  never  worn 
separate  cuffs  to  this  day.)  My  suits  were  linen,  brown 
for  ever>--day  and  colored  for  best;  one  was  white  with  nar- 
row blue  stripes.  We  wore  straw  hats  and  boots— real 
boots  with  legs — or  sometimes  low  shoes. 

I  kept  a  diars-  in  a  butcher's  book,  entitled,  "Journal 
of  my  Travels  in  the  United  States.  Private."  And 
though  I  don't  need  to  consult  its  pages  to  refresh  my 
memory — it  is  all  as  clear  as  if  it  were  yesterday— I  shall 



quote  from  it,  for  my  boyish  way  of  putting  things  seems 
to  me  amusing: 

"Started  in  the  steamer  New  World  for  Albany,  but  she 
got  aground  and  the  passengers  had  to  be  taken  off  by  a 
steamer  behind  us  called  the  Mason.  Mr.  de  Peyster  was 
on  board.  Travelled  all  night  on  the  cars  and  had  a  recess 
at  Rochester  for  breakfast.  Eat  a  whole  broiled  chicken 
and  sundries  to  match.  Saw  a  girl  in  the  cars  dressed  in 
the  Bloomer  costume,  blue  with  a  gold  band  for  border. 
She  looked  very  ugly." 

At  Niagara  we  stayed  at  the  Clifton  House  on  the  Eng- 
hsh  side,  went  under  the  Horseshoe  Falls  dressed  in  oilskins, 
and  saw  all  the  sights,  including  the  animals  in  the  museum 
— "skeleton  of  a  whale,  3  bald-headed  eagles,  some  very 
large  cat  owls,  2  wolves,  4  read  headed  cranes,  the  same 
as  ours  only  they  have  red  heads,  they  began  to  gobble 
when  you  told  them  to,  2  Buffaloes,  he  looked  rather  sav- 
age. A  poor  dinner,  grizly  beef  and  a  small  portion  of 
bony  chicken.  Saw  a  great  many  eels  on  the  rocks,  dozens 
of  them  laying  on  the  rocks.  Went  up  Lundy's  Lane  to 
the  Battle  field,  an  old  soldier  gave  us  a  description  of  it. 
Went  on  a  double  plank  road  to  the  Burning  Spring  that 
if  you  tutch  it  with  fire  it  blazes  up.  We  bought  a  bottle. 
Then  we  came  up  to  the  Devil's  Hole.  A  man  told  us 
there  were  200  Enghsh  soldiers  driven  within  and  killed. 
The  man  was  deformed  and  had  only  part  of  an  arm  with 
one  finger  near  his  armpit.  Boiled  turkey  with  oyster 
sauce,  roast  beef,  ice  cream  and  peaches.  Went  to  Goat 
Island,  a  woman  lost  her  handkerchief  overboard  and  I 
caught  it  on  a  stick  just  as  it  was  passing,  a  little  washing 
did  not  hurt  it  any.  Sunday.  The  service  of  the  church 
of  England  is  a  great  deal  different,  rather  a  poor  sermon." 

**  Started  for  Trenton,  first  in  cars  drawn  by  horses, 



then  in  a  steamboat  to  BufValo.  Went  to  Barnum's  Mu- 
seum at  Schenectady,  a  great  humbug,  and  some  Ethiopian 
Minstrels,  miserable  ones.  A  woman  had  S50  stolen  from 
her  pocket.  After  that  we  came  home.  There  was  a  man 
selhng  paper,  a  Yankee  of  course,  you  put  it  on  a  shcat 
with  another  over  it  and  a  dozen  sheats  under  it  and  you 
can  write  on  top  and  take  the  impression  all  the  way 
through.  You  can  take  drawings  the  same  as  Hthographs 
and  the  impressions  of  leaves.  He  said  he  had  a  book 
that  was  full  of  the  impressions  of  all  sorts  of  leaves  that 
he  had  offered  him  last  year  $250  for,  and  he  would  not 
take  it.  I  believe  it.  I  bought  a  paper  of  it,  4  colors, 
Black,  Blue,  Red  and  Green.  You  can  mark  clothes  with 
it  indelably  and  stone,  wood,  lace,  and  marble  just  the 

At  Saratoga  we  stayed  at  Congress  Hall,  a  iine  hotel, 
built  around  a  square,  with  a  lawn  in  the  middle  where  a 
band  played  in  the  evening.  A  piazza  ran  around  the 
square  with  French  windows  opening  on  it,  and  on  this 
piazza  we  had  our  rooms.  All  hotels  were  then  kept  on 
the  American  plan — you  paid  so  much,  including  every- 
thing. As  I  remember,  the  usual  charge  was  three  dollars 
a  day  and  there  w^ere  no  extras.  Hotels  on  the  European 
plan  were  unknown.  At  this  time  Saratoga  was  the  most 
fashionable  resort  in  America— Newport  had  hardly  been 
discovered— so  the  nicest  people,  particularly  Southerners, 
went  there  and  drank  the  waters.  Every  one  went  down 
each  morning  to  the  spring  and  drank,  so  we  did  too, 
though  we  thought  it  nasty.  Saratoga  was  quite  dillercnt 
from  what  it  is  now,  for  there  was  little  racing  in  those 
days,  and  no  sporting  fast  set,  though  they  did  have  a 
trotting-course  near  by  where  Jack  and  I  went.  It  was  my 
first  trotting-match. 



At  Lake  George  we  got  hold  of  a  nice  fisherman,  named 
Horace  Welsh,  and  spent  most  of  our  time  on  the  lake, 
catching  some  fine  bass.  "...  It  is  Sunday  today.  After 
dinner  we  had  ice  cream,  peaches,  pineapples,  plums,  raisins 
and  almonds.  They  have  eight  rattlesnakes  here  that 
they  have  had  for  some  years,  and  all  of  that  time  they 
have  not  eaten  anything."  I  remember  that  in  the  train 
coming  home  a  lady  asked  me  to  get  her  a  glass  of  water 
and  when  I  brought  it  to  her  she  offered  me  a  tip,  which  I 
politely  dechned.  Outwardly  I  was  calm,  but  inwardly  I 
felt  deeply  insulted — I  thought  she  should  have  known 
that  I  was  a  gentleman  and  above  taking  tips.  It  seems 
funny  to  remember  this  for  nearly  seventy  years. 

My  brother  Charles  was  drow^ned  in  the  river  in  1848, 
and  I  think  after  the  shock  of  this  accident  my  mother 
tacitly  encouraged  us  to  go  in  for  land-sports — shooting, 
riding,  and  the  hke — rather  than  for  sailboats.  However 
this  may  be,  I  know  I  never  cared  much  for  saihng. 

My  oldest  brother  was  named  WiKiam  Henry,  after 
my  grandfather  and  my  uncle  who  was  killed  in  India. 
HsLvry  had  unusual  natural  abihties,  but  no  staying  quali- 
ties, and  took  up  too  many  different  pursuits  in  life.  He 
began  by  going  to  too  many  different  schools.  After  our 
tutors  at  home  he  went  to  Mr.  Phinney's  in  Newburgh. 
Schoolmasters  used  heroic  methods  in  those  days.  Mr. 
Phinney  had  a  colored  coachman  named  Sam,  part  of 
whose  duty  it  w^as  to  hold  the  boys  on  his  back  by  their 
hands,  their  bodies  being  well  exposed,  while  Mr.  Phinney 
flogged  them.  I  think  Harry  went  next  to  the  school  at 
Nazareth  in  Pennsylvania,  built  originally  by  Whitefield 
and  kept  by  the  Moravian  Brothers.  Judging  by  the  lit- 
tle picture  on  their  writing-paper  it  was  a  simple  place, 
and  the  terms  were  a  contrast  to  the  ideas  of  St.  Mark's  or 



Groton  to-day.  They  charged  tliirly-fivc  dollars  a  quar- 
ter, I  find  in  an  old  bill,  and  four  dollars  for  such  extras 
as  "washing  and  the  Greek  language." 

After  this  Harry  tried  Doctor  Mufilenberg's  famous 
school  at  Flushing,  called  "College  Point."  Although 
Harry  gave  him  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  Doctor  Muhlenlx-rg 
was  attached  to  him.  When  Doctor  Muhlenberg  was  talk- 
ing to  a  boy  of  whom  he  was  fond,  he  had  a  funny  habit 
of  taking  off  his  pupil's  cap  in  an  absent-minded  way  and 
rubbing  his  head.  Harry  told  me  of  meeting  the  Doctor 
in  the  street,  after  he  was  grown  u|),  and  as  soon  as  Harry 
took  his  hat  off  the  Doctor  started  rubbing  his  head  just 
from  habit.  While  at  College  Point  Harry  once  skated 
across  the  Sound;  it  was  unusual  to  have  it  frozen,  and  he 
took  advantage  of  the  opportunity,  but  couldn't  skate 
back  because  the  ice  broke  up.  After  going  to  a  military 
school  at  West  Point  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Hart- 
ford, in  1844,  but  only  stayed  a  year.  He  was  mixed  up 
in  some  frolic  in  a  room  on  the  second  floor  of  Jarvis  Hall — 
I  know  the  room  well  and  I  should  say  the  windows  were 
about  twenty  feet  above  the  ground.  When  the  professor 
came  and  knocked  at  the  door  Harry  jumped  out  of  the 
window  and  was  pretty  badly  hurt;  he  broke  something, 
his  leg,  I  think,  so  he  left  college  the  end  of  his  freshman 

He  had  always  wanted  to  enter  the  na\T  since  his 
visits  on  board  the  North  Caroliria  with  Uncle  Charles, 
and  my  mother  had  tried  her  best  to  get  him  a  warrant, 
through  Mr.  Legarc  and  other  friends.  Indeed,  it  was 
supposed  to  be  all  settled  and  Harry  went  to  New  ^  ork 
with  Uncle,  only  to  learn  that  the  secretary  of  the  navy 
had  just  died  and  had  not  signed  the  warrant  after  all.  It 
was  a  great  blow.     But  he  was  determined  to  go  to  sea 



anyway.  So  he  got  a  position  as  cabin-boy  on  the  clipper 
ship  Water  Witch,  commanded  by  the  notorious  Bob  Water- 
man, a  fme  sailor  but  very  cruel  and  arbitrary — I  think 
he  was  ultimately  tried  for  the  murder  of  a  sailor.  Harry 
was  one  of  several  cabin-boys,  all,  I  believe,  gentlemen's 
sons.  It  was  the  custom  in  those  days  for  nice  boys  to 
go  in  this  way  to  learn  the  sea.  They  wxnt  to  Hong  Kong. 
It  was  the  ship's  first  voyage  and  she  made  the  return  trip 
from  there  to  New  York  in  seventy-six  days,  the  fastest 
trip  of  the  day.  One  stormy,  dark  night  Captain  Water- 
man sent  Harry  up  to  reef  a  royal,  which  is,  I  believe,  the 
highest  and  smallest  sail  on  the  main,  or  mizzen,  mast  of  a 
fuII-rigged  ship.  Harry  tried  his  best  each  time,  but  the 
bitter  wind  tore  it  away  from  him,  so  he  slithered  down  to 
the  deck  and  told  the  captain  it  couldn't  be  done. 

"Go  up  again  and  reef  it  and  be  d d  to  you,  and 

don't  come  back  till  it's  done,"  was  the  captain's  answer. 
So  up  the  mast  Harry  went  and,  finding  the  sail  loose, 
flapping  in  the  storm,  he  took  out  his  sheath-knife  and 
cut  the  whole  sail  clear  and  away  it  went. 

"Can't  do  it,  sir!"  he  reported  to  the  terrible  captain. 

"What !     Why  the can't  you  do  it?" 

"Toproyalmizzen  gone  to  leeward,  sir!"  And,  strange 
to  say,  that  was  the  end  of  it. 

A  brief  flirtation  with  the  law  came  next  in  Harry's 
career.  He  studied  for  about  a  year  in  the  law  office  of 
Wells  and  Van  Wagenen,  in  New  York— Mr.  Thomas  L. 
Wells  was^  one  of  my  father's  most  intimate  friends— but 
most  of  his  friends  were  studying  medicine,  among  them 
Tom  Pinckney,  of  South  Carofina,  so  he  shifted  to  the 
New  York  Hospital  and  got  a  smattering  of  medicine. 
Surgery  had  a  fascination  for  him,  and  he  probably  would 
have  made  a  success  at  it  with  his  skilful  hands,  but  just 



at  that  time,  1849,  gold  was  discovered  in  California  and 
he  determined  to  go  there  and  dig.  So  with  his  intimate 
friend  Sam  Craig  he  joined  French's  Expedition.  They 
prepared  themselves  with  saddles,  rifles,  etc.,  and  went  to 
Galveston,  from  which  place  they  were  to  ride  across  the 
plains  on  horseback  to  Cahfornia.  Frencli's  Expedition,  a 
large  company  of  men,  assembled  at  Galveston  and  actually 
started,  but  dissensions  arose  and  dissatisfaction  with 
French's  arrangements;  in  a  short  time  the  whole  thing 
was  a  failure,  the  train  disbanded,  and  every  man  had  to 
shift  for  himself. 

So  Harry  bought  a  horse  and  started  to  ride  alone  to 
California.  It  took  him  nine  months.  He  crossed  the 
American  Desert,  and  he  has  told  me  how  his  only  com- 
panions were  the  little  horned  toads  that  used  to  nestle 
in  his  blankets  at  night,  when  the  desert  was  so  breath- 
lessly still  that  he  could  hear  the  grains  of  sand  moving. 
He  passed  through  the  site  of  El  Paso — then,  I  think,  only 
two  rocks  or  perhaps  a  single  house — swam  his  horse  across 
the  Colorado  River,  and  finally  reached  the  coast,  where 
he  took  passage  in  a  brig.  The  captain  of  the  brig  died 
on  the  w^ay,  there  was  no  one  to  navigate  her,  so  Harry, 
who,  of  course,  knew  about  sailing,  took  command  and 
brought  her  into  San  Francisco. 

At  the  mines,  as  he  was  so  handy  with  tools,  he  built 
himself  a  nice  little  house  and  was  getting  along  fmely, 
when  news  came  that  his  mother  was  ill— or  perhaps  he 
was  just  restless.  Anyway,  he  left  his  house  in  the  gold- 
diggings  and  returned  to  New  York.  While  in  the  mininp- 
camp  he  also  practised  medicine  and  surgery,  and  actually 
amputated  a  man's  kg.     I  believe  the  patient  survived ! 

Harry  happened  to  be  in  the  South,  staying  with  some 
of  our   relations,    just   before   the   Civil    Wiu   broke   out. 



Though  he  was  a  Northern  man,  he  was  so  closely  con- 
nected with  the  South  that  when  the  neighbors  began 
training  a  troop  he  helped  them  to  drill,  as  he  had  been  to 
a  mihtary  school.  They  had  lots  of  fun.  One  day — I  tell 
you  this  just  as  Harry  told  it— when  the  drill  was  over, 
they  were  having  a  feast  in  the  woods,  a  splendid  affair, 
with  all  sorts  of  good  things  sent  by  the  Charleston  ladies, 
wild  turkey  and  plum-cake  and  wine,  and  every  man  with 
his  body-servant  standing  behind  him.  After  the  feast 
one  of  his  friends — I  am  not  sure  if  it  was  "Powder'* 
Whaley  or  "Corkie"  Huger — took  him  aside. 

"Harry,"  he  said,  "your  interests  are  all  in  the  North, 
and  Vhere  the  purse  is  there  the  heart  should  be.  A  boat 
goes  from  Charleston  to-night  and  it  may  be  the  last  to 
leave  the  port;  you'd  better  take  it.  I  was  in  love  with 
your  mother,  so  look  out  for  yourself,  and  don't  get  a  knife 
in  your  back !" 

Strange  to  say,  Harry  took  this  advice — a  thing  he  was 
never  known  to  do  before  or  since — and  got  the  last  boat 
from  Charleston.  As  he  was  going  up  the  gang-plank  he 
happened  to  see  Miss  Sarah  Matilda  Grayson,  a  young 
cousin  of  my  mother's,  and  "she  looked  so  pretty  and 
rosy"  that  he  proposed  then  and  there,  with  a  "Tilly,  will 
you  marry  me?"  which  she  found  agreeable. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  the  Honorable  William  Gray- 
son, of  Charleston.  (I  believe  Mattie,  as  we  always  called 
her,  came  near  being  named  Gardenia  Garden,  after  our 
relation  Doctor  Garden  and  the  w^ell-known  flower  named 
in  his  honor  by  Linnseus.)  Mr.  Grayson  approved  highly 
of  slavery,  but  was  strongly  opposed  to  secession.  Unfor- 
tunately, though  he  was  a  Union  man,  he  did  not  trust  in 
our  success  in  arms  and  invested  all  his  money  in  Confed- 
erate bonds,  and,  of  course,  lost  it.     His  theories  about 



slavery  are  summed  up  In  a  pamphlet  of  1851,  whose  argii- 
ments  sound  so  curiously  in  one's  ears  to-day  that  I  shall 
quote  a  few  paragraphs: 

"There  are  two  kinds  of  labor,  hireling  lal^or  and  slave 
labor.  Let  the  North  enjoy  their  hircHng  hibor  with  all 
its  advantages — pauperism,  rowdyism,  mobism  and  anti- 
rentism — its  strikes,  emeutcs  and  street  fights — we  of  the 
South  are  satisfied  with  our  slave  labor.  The  hirehngs  of 
Europe  are  clamoring  for  what  they  call  the  organization 
of  labor.  Slave  labor  is  the  only  organized  Ial)or  ever 
known.  It  is  the  only  condition  of  society  in  which  labor 
and  capital  are  associated  on  a  large  scale — in  which  their 
interests  are  combined  and  not  in  conflict.  If  the  negroes 
were  made  free,  whether  peace  or  war  ensued,  they  would 
in  time  become  extinct." 

Mr.  Grayson's  poem,  "The  Hireling  and  the  Slave," 
was  widely  read  and  endlessly  quoted  before  the  Civil 
War,  and  he  was  the  biographer  of  his  friend  James  Lewis 
Pettigrew,  the  great  Carolina  lawyer,  also  a  Union  man. 
After  Mr.  Grayson's  death  I  edited  his  "Life  of  Pettigrew," 
and  it  was  published  by  Harper,  with  a  preface  by  Henry 
Tuckerman,  the  poet. 

To  return  to  Harry — the  day  was  set  for  his  marriage 
to  Miss  Grayson,  but  the  South  just  after  the  fall  of  Fort 
Sumter  was  in  a  most  turbulent  condition,  and  he  had 
great  difficulty  in  reaching  Charleston.  At  Atlanta,  on 
account  of  some  reckless  remark,  he  excited  suspicion,  and 
a  furious  mob  collected  and  threatened  to  lynch  him.  A 
friend  travelling  with  him  was  taking  a  nap  in  the  hotel 
when  he  was  aroused  by  the  clamor  in  the  street.  Lookmg 
out  he  saw  Harry  standing  in  a  corner  between  two  houses, 
with  his  back  to  a  wall  and  a  pistol  in  his  hand,  facing  a 
lot  of  yelling   ruffians.     He   rushed  out  and   brought   the 



mayor,  who  was  able  to  calm  the  mob  for  a  moment,  and 
who  took  Harry's  arm  and  walked  him  off  to  safety.  The 
crowd  had  a  rope  ready,  so  it  w^as  a  pretty  close  shave ! 
While  it  was  still  touch  and  go,  Harry  told  me  that  he  saw 
right  in  front  of  him  the  man  to  w^hom  he  had  been  talking 
indiscreetly,  and  who  had  collected  the  mob.  Harry  said 
he  fixed  his  eyes  on  him  and  said,  "Perhaps  I  can  kill  only 
one,  but  you'll  be  that  one!"  which  he  thought  took  a 
little  of  the  zest  out  of  this  ringleader,  and  made  him  keep 
the  others  back  until  the  providential  coming  of  the  mayor. 

After  his  marriage  Harry  stopped  touring  the  w^orld, 
and  his  Hfe  on  the  old  Acker  Farm,  not  far  from  Danskam- 
mcr,  was  uneventful  except  for  a  tragedy — his  only  child, 
Httle  Emmie,  was  drowned  in  the  brook  in  front  of  their 
house.  He  never  got  over  it.  The  Acker,  or  Eckhert, 
Farm  was  part  of  the  original  grant  of  a  thousand  acres 
from  Queen  Anne  to  Wolfert  Eckhert,  who  built  "Wolfert's 
Roost,"  the  house  where  Washington  Irving  lived  after 
changing  its  name  to  ''Sunnyside."  Harry's  house  w^as  a 
quaint  old  place,  with  huge  fireplaces  and  enormously  thick 
walls  of  brick  and  stone,  built  by  Wolfert  as  a  blockhouse 
to  defend  the  inhabitants  against  the  Indians;  it  is  by  far 
the  oldest  house  in  the  neighborhood. 

Harry  was  a  splendid  rider,  an  excellent  shot,  and  a 
good  sportsman  in  every  w^ay.  There  w^as  nothing  he  did 
not  know  about  dogs,  especially  the  training  of  pointers. 
Most  of  his  pointers  were  of  the  famous  Wade  Flampton 
breed,  named  after  the  governor  of  South  Carolina.  One, 
named  Shot,  that  he  had  trained  from  a  puppy,  was  ex- 
traordinarily clever.  If  he  saw  Harry's  horse  being  saddled, 
he  knew  that  Marlborough  was  the  objective,  and  he  would 
take  a  certain  short  cut  across  the  fields  and  meet  him  on 
the  main  road.     If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  saw  the  horse 



being  harnessed  into  a  wagon,  he  would  guess  that  he  was 
going  in  the  opposite  direction  to  Newburgh,  where  all  the 
household  shopping  was  done,  and  another  short  cut  would 
bring  master  and  dog  together  on  the  Newburgh  road. 
Harry  spent  a  winter  at  Summerville,  and  often  went  in 
to  Charleston  with  Shot,  sometimes  by  rail,  sometimes  in 
a  wagon.  One  day  he  drove  in,  and  somehow  or  other  lost 
the  dog  in  town.  Shot  went  to  the  railway-station  in 
Charleston,  boarded  the  train,  and  returned  alone  to  Sum- 
merville. The  conductor  watched  him  and  told  Harry 
that  he  got  off  the  train  at  Summerville  like  any  other 
passenger,  only  he  did  not  give  him  any  ticket. 

Harry  had  the  most  ingenious  hands  that  I  have  ever 
seen.  Not  only  could  he  carve  pretty  little  heads  out  of 
peach-pits  and  cherry-stones,  and  whittle  all  sorts  of  orna- 
mental things,  such  as  toys  and  work-boxes,  but  he  was  an 
excellent  cabinetmaker  and  made  good  furniture.  At  sea 
he  had  learned  to  sew  and  knit  and  could  make  a  pair  of 
trousers  or  net  the  most  intricate  kind  of  fish-nct. 

He  was  a  fearless  rider  and  could  take  a  horse  over 
almost  anything.  On  one  occasion  he  was  in  Newburgh 
with  a  pair  of  horses  that  sometimes  ran  away,  so  he 
thought  he  would  give  them  a  lesson.  When  they  started 
from  Newburgh  it  was  late  at  night  and  he  had  a  free  road, 
so  he  let  them  run;  when  they  seemed  to  tire  and  lag  a 
little  he  laid  the  whip  on,  and  instead  of  turning  In  at  his 
own  road  he  kept  on,  eight  miles  in  all,  to  Marlborough. 
At  Marlborough  there  is  an  abrupt  decline  over  a  bridge, 
then  a  flat  road  for  about  a  mile,  and  then  a  long,  long  hill. 
They  went  over  all  this  distance,  between  nine  and  ten 
miles,  on  a  dead  run,  without  let-up  or  mishap,  but  when 
they  struck  that  last  long  hill  they  gave  in,  only  too  glad 
to  turn  their  heads  and  walk  quietly  toward  home.     They 



never  attempted  to  run  away  again.  Imagine  the  fun  he 
had — driving  lickety-split,  regardless  of  consequences,  mile 
after  mile,  up  and  down  hill,  over  a  rough  narrow  road  in 
the  middle  of  the  night !  It  was  characteristic  of  him — 
he  was  afraid  of  nothing. 

He  is  buried  at  Christ  Church,  Marlborough,  near  the 
grave  of  his  wife  and  Httle  Emmie. 

"Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill." 

As  long  as  I  can  remember  anything  my  best  friend  in 
the  family  was  my  brother  Gouverneur,  named  after  Uncle 
Gouv  Wilkins.  As  a  very  little  boy,  when  he  was  away 
at  school,  I  used  to  gather  the  best  pears  and  other  fruit 
and  save  them  for  him.  He  gave  me  my  first  rifle  and 
taught  me  how  to  shoot  it,  and  as  soon  as  I  was  able  to 
carry  a  gun  we  used  to  explore  all  the  woodcock  swamps  in 
the  neighborhood  and  across  the  river.  Sometimes  we 
went  to  a  swamp  near  Lattintown,  where  there  was  a  fme 
cold  spring  and  a  nice  place  to  eat  our  lunch,  while  another 
favorite  resort  was  a  large  swamp  back  of  Wappingers 
Falls.  We  had  a  dog  of  Augustus  Stebbins's  for  some  time 
and  I  remember  his  following  a  wounded  bird  for  over  four 
hundred  yards  through  this  swamp,  and  then  bringing  him 
in.  Gouv  was  a  walker  who  never  tired;  in  Switzerland 
he  walked  the  fifty  miles  over  the  Simplon  Pass  in  one  day. 
They  tell  me  that  in  Florida  he  would  start  out  with  his 
gun  early  in  the  morning  and  tramp  all  day,  with  no  lunch 
but  a  lemon.  He  was  the  best  shot  I  ever  saw.  In  Florida 
Ned  was  his  finest  hunting-dog,  a  black-and-tan  Gor- 
don setter.  He  was  once  bitten  by  a  rattlesnake  and 
Gouv  carried  him  home  two  and  a  half  miles  in  his  arms 
and  nursed  him  back  to  health,  though  he  bore  the  scar 



of  the  bite  the  rest  of  his  life.  One  evening,  w  hen  he  was 
very  old,  he  went  out  to  the  orange-grove  with  Gouv,  and 
amused  himself  for  a  little  while  hunting  the  flock  of  quail 
that  lived  there;  then  he  came  up  to  Gouv,  lay  quietly 
down  at  his  feet,  and  died. 

Gouv  was  educated  by  our  private  tutors  until  he  went 
to  "College  Hill"  at  Poughkeepsie,  of  which  I  have  already 
spoken.  They  made  a  fine  classical  scholar  of  him,  and 
begged  my  mother  to  let  him  go  to  college,  but  there  was 
a  good  opening  for  him  with  Maitland,  Phelps,  so  she  put 
him  there.  I  think  she  made  a  mistake,  for  the  "counting- 
house,"  as  it  was  called  in  those  days,  never  suited  him. 
In  fact,  she  soon  realized  this  and  sent  him  to  live  with 
Isaac  Conkling,  who  worked  the  Acker  Farm  for  us  on 
shares,  to  learn  farming,  which  he  really  liked.  Isaac  was 
a  fine  old  fellow  and  we  were  all  fond  of  him.  He  was  not 
garrulous;  driving  back  from  Newburgh  one  day  with 
Gouv,  after  doing  some  shopping  for  his  wife,  he  never 
spoke  the  whole  seven  miles  except  once  when  he  grunted, 
"Durn  them  victorines!"  and  relapsed  into  silence.  This 
fashionable  kind  of  ladies'  cape  was  evidently  expensive. 

When  my  mother  died  she  left  Gouv  as  my  guardian. 
In  the  fall  of  1854  I  started  for  Trinity  College.  Gouv 
went  with  me  as  far  as  New  York  and  blew  me  off  to  a 
lunch  at  old  Delmonlco's,  at  the  corner  of  Beaver  Street. 
I  don't  remember  all  we  had,  but  I  do  recall  there  were 
apple  fritters  with  sherry  sauce.  At  college  Doctor  Good- 
win, the  president,  was  not  always,  to  put  it  mildly,  pleased 
with  my  conduct,  and  he  used  to  write  to  Gouv  as  my 
guardian  and  ask  him  to  expostulate  with  me.  But  he 
did  not  try  this  very  long,  for  Gouv  thought  ever>-thing  I 
did  was  about  right  and  always  answered  that  he  thought 
Doctor  Goodwin  had  better  just  talk  the  matter  over  with 



inc.  So  you  see  after  my  mother's  death  I  was  practically 
my  own  master,  except  in  the  matter  of  money,  for  Gouv 
iicid  the  purse-strings  until  I  was  grown  up.  ^      ^ 

I  think  it  was  in  1870  that  Gouv  went  to  live  in  Florida. 
He  had  often  stayed  at  Hibernia,  a  dehghtful  old  planta- 
tion house  on  the  St.  John's  kept  by  Mrs.  Fleming,  and 
became  so  fond  of  the  Flemings  and  of  the  lovely  place 
that  he  fmally  bought  some  land  there  and  planted  a  mag- 
nificent orange-grove,  which  was  very  profitable  until  the 
great  freeze  of  1897,  when  all  the  trees  were  killed  down  to 
the  ground. 

About  the  pleasantest  part  of  these  Florida  winters  of 
Gouv's  was  his  camping  trips.  Sometimes  he  went  with 
CaroII  Livingston  and  very  often  with  F.  Augustus  Peabody, 
of  Boston.  Each  of  them  had  a  Rice  Lake  canoe  and  they 
took  along  a  negro  man  who  was  an  excellent  cook  and  who 
rowed  the  boat  with  their  cooking  kit,  tents,  etc.  They 
often  went  as  far  as  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  and  down  the 
coast,  sleeping  in  tents,  and  except  for  groceries,  hving 
on  the  game  and  fish  they  killed.  Wild  turkeys  were  plen- 
tiful, and  both  Peabody  and  my  brother  were  splendid 
shots,  so  they  must  have  hved  high.  To  call  the  turkeys 
Gouv  used  to  go  out  into  the  swamps  at  night,  sometimes 
standing  up  to  his  neck  in  water,  with  a  "call"  made  from 
the  wing-l)one  of  a  turkey.  Lots  of  big  gobblers  would 
come  at  his  summons  and  light  in  the  near-by  trees.  As 
they  travelled  along  they  would  come  across  natives  who 
could  take  them  to  good  turkey  ground.  I  remember  Gus 
Peabody  telling  me  of  a  boastful  fellow  who  joined  them 
as  they  walked  along  a  road  and  began  blowing  about  his 
prowess  in  shooting.  Suddenly  two  turkeys  were  flushed 
and  went  sailing  straight  down  the  trail.  Gouv  killed  one 
with  each  barrel,  but  the  braggart  was  too  scared  to  get 



his  gun  off.  It  was  on  one  of  these  same  trips  that  Gouv 
in  walking  across  a  swamp  felt  something  writhe  under  his 
feet.  He  gave  a  spring  forward  and,  looking  back,  saw 
an  enormous  rattler,  its  head  up,  ready  to  strike.  He 
shot  it  and  when  it  was  measured  by  Doctor  W'yman,  a 
friend  and  associate  of  Agassiz,  he  found  it  was  seven 
feet  long,  the  largest  they  had  ever  seen. 

Gouv  was  the  finest  of  men,  temperate,  honorable,  and 
straightforward,  kindly,  loyal  to  his  friends— good  to  look 
at,  too,  with  his  upright  figure,  ruddy  face,  and  china-bhic 
eyes.  I  loved  him  dearly.  He  died  at  Hibernia  and  is 
buried  in  the  httle  churchyard  there,  a  lovely,  cahn  spot. 
A  few  years  later  I  went  again  to  Hibernia  for  the  funeral 
of  John  Neilson,  my  brother-in-law  and  a  warm  friend  of 
Gouv's.  They  are  buried  next  to  each  other.  In  the  eve- 
ning— a  swTet  early-winter  evening,  with  a  light  wind 
whispering  in  the  pine-trees  and  stirring  the  veils  of  gray 
moss  that  drape  their  branches — I  walked  over  to  the 
churchyard.  Palms  and  roses  were  piled  at  the  heads  of 
the  two  graves,  side  by  side.  It  is  a  fitting  resting-place 
for  my  dear  Gouv,  and  the  one  he  would  have  chosen  and 
loved  best. 




"I  watch  them  drift — the  old  familiar  faces, 
Who  fished  and  rode  with  me  by  stream  and  wold." 


In  the  autumn  of  1853,  when  I  was  seventeen,  we  were 
all  at  Danskammer  when  my  three  brothers  decided  to 
spend  the  winter  in  Charleston.  I  see  now  that  I  ought 
cither  to  have  gone  to  school  again  somewhere  or  entered 
college,  but  my  brothers  thought  it  would  be  a  good  plan 
for  me  also  to  spend  the  winter  in  South  Carohna,  particu- 
larly as  Mrs.  Martin  Wilkins,  who  Hved  in  Charleston,  had 
asked  me  to  stay  with  her.  My  brothers  suggested  that  I 
could  take  my  books  along  and  study  just  as  well  there  as 
anywhere  else.  So  a  httle  later  I  went  by  steamer  to 
Charleston;  it  was  my  first  experience  of  the  sea  and  I  was 
very  seasick,  but  when  I  arrived  I  was  delighted  with  the 
semi-tropic  climate  of  Carohna  after  the  November  land- 
scape I  had  left  at  home.  The  Wilkinses  received  me  at 
their  house  in  Charleston,  a  nice  old-fashioned  house  Hke 
many  others  in  the  town,  with  an  entrance-hall  running  on 
one  side  the  whole  length  of  the  house,  and  the  parlor  and 
other  rooms  opening  on  it.  Mrs.  Wilkins,  who  had  been 
a  Miss  Grimble,  was  a  sweet  and  gentle  old  lady,  a  great 
friend  of  my  mother's.  Her  husband,  Uncle  Gouv  Wilkins*s 
brother,  had  died,  leaving  her  with  three  sons  and  three 
daughters:  Gouverneur  had  just  graduated  from  Yale  and 
was  a  planter,  Martin  was  a  lawyer,  and  Berkeley  was  in 
business  in  Charleston;  Eliza  I  knew  already,  for  she  had 



stayed  with  us  at  Danskammer,  a  charming  girl  just  grow- 
ing up,  and  the  other  two  girls  were  still  younger,  Ixjth  of 
them  pretty.  The  Civil  War  came  on  soon  after  they 
grew  up,  the  family  suffered  losses,  and  these  lovely  girls 
never  married. 

The  first  thing  I  did  when  I  arrived  al  I  Ik-  Wilkinscs* 
was  to  put  my  Latin  and  Greek  books  in  a  closet  for  future 
reference,  with  the  result  that  I  did  not  look  at  them  once 
until  I  returned  to  New  York  in  the  spring.  A  day  or  two 
after  I  got  there  the  family  went  to  the  country  for  tlic 
winter,  and  as  there  were  no  other  means  of  transport  in 
those  days  we  drove  in  their  carriage  to  their  {plantation, 
Kelvin  Grove,  near  Rantowle's,  about  twenty  miles  from 
Charleston.  It  was  a  rice  and  cotton  plantation,  but  not 
a  very  large  one,  having  only  about  forty  slaves. 

Kelvin  was  near  the  plantation  of  Mr.  Tom  Lowndes, 
whose  pretty  adopted  daughter,  Adela,  afterward  mar- 
ried young  Gouv  Wilkins.  These  were  typical  combina- 
tion rice  and  cotton  plantations — wide,  hospitable  houses, 
the  kitchens  off  in  separate  buildings  with  enormous  open 
fireplaces  where  all  the  roasting  and  boihng  was  done. 
There  were  private  graveyards  with  quaint  tombstones  of 
former  proprietors,  and  broad  ricc-fields  intersected  with 
ditches,  with  reserves  for  water.  Along  the  sedg^-  banks 
Enghsh  snipe  abounded  and  in  the  higher  ground,  in  the 
broom-grass,  quail  were  plentiful  There  were  also  deer 
and  wild  turkeys  in  the  forest,  where  there  were  large 
tracts  of  pine-trees,  and  the  vast  swamps  were  swarming 
with  ducks  and  alHgators.  Bay-trees  grew  thickly  along 
the  edges  of  the  lakeHke  reserves,  and  here  was  where  we 
found  the  most  woodcock. 

On  the  plantation  was  a  nice  httle  village  of  comfortable 
white  cabins   for  the  negroes.     But   there  always  was  in 



evidence  a  driver,  as  he  was  called,  who  was  a  superior 
negro  and  carried  a  whip.  The  whips  used  were  made  of 
hickory,  with  a  solid  handle  that  tapered  off  until  it  was 
flexible.  To  this  was  attached  the  ten-foot  rawhide  whip- 
lash. The  driver  always  had  it  in  his  hand  as  he  walked 
about  among  the  workers  in  the  cotton-field,  and  if  he  spied 
a  loiterer  the  whip  sprang  out  hke  Hghtning,  so  that  there 
was  no  idhng.  In  the  evening  the  hands  were  all  assembled 
at  the  cotton-house,  where  the  cotton  was  stored.  Each 
hand's  bag  of  cotton  w^as  weighed,  and  if  it  did  not  come 
up  to  what  he  ought  to  have  picked  he  had  so  many  lashes 
— not  on  his  bare  back,  but  even  through  his  shirt  it  must 
have  hurt.  It  was  taken  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  no 
remarks  were  made  by  the  victims.  One  evening  one  of 
the  young  negroes  was  caught  kilhng  a  neighbor's  pigs. 
They  had  circumstantial  evidence  and  wanted  him  to 
confess,  so  he  was  brought  out  and  whipped,  pretty  severely, 
but  he  would  not  acknowledge  it;  perhaps  he  was  innocent. 

This  was  a  plantation  where  the  slaves  were  well 
treated;  on  places  where  the  owners  were  really  cruel  there 
were,  of  course,  terrible  abuses.  Here  they  had  medical 
attendance  from  Gouverneur  Wilkins,  who  had  studied 
medicine  for  the  purpose,  a  chaplain  visited  them  at  inter- 
vals, and  they  were  taught  to  read  by  the  ladies  of  the 
family.  They  were  well  fed,  and  on  the  whole  they  were 
comfortable  and  happy.  But  they  were  slaves.  Person- 
ally, in  spite  of  my  close  connection  with  the  South,  I  have 
ahvays  detested  slavery  and  felt  the  greatest  pity  for  the 
colored  people. 

The  first  morning  after  my  arrival  at  Kelvin,  Gouverneur 
Wilkins  took  me  out  shooting  on  the  rice-fields.  I  had  a 
nice  little  gun  which  had  been  a  flint-lock  belonging  to  my 
grandfather,    Colonel    Armstrong,    but    which    had    been 



altered  to  a  percussion-lock.  It  was  i8-gauge  and  had  a 
gold  thumb-piece  with  a  crest,  our  "hand  and  dagger" — 
an  excellent  gun,  made  by  Nock  of  London.  After  the 
rice  is  planted  the  fields  are  flooded  at  intervals  with  water, 
which  comes  through  locks  from  a  vast  reserve,  or  pond. 
As  I  was  there  in  winter  the  water  was  turned  off  and  the 
fields  were  comparatively  dry;  they  were  filled  with  EngHsh 
snipe  and  the  shooting  was  very  fine.  The  snipe  is  a  diffi- 
cult bird  because  when  he  first  rises  and  is  comparatively 
quiet  he  is  too  near  to  shoot;  he  then  begins  to  gyrate  and 
dash  from  side  to  side,  then  sails  away.  Though  not  an 
easy  mark,  this  is  the  moment  to  shoot  him.  I  was  then 
only  a  pretty  good  shot,  but  I  rapidly  improved  with  so 
much  practice.  The  best  quail-shooting  was  at  a  place 
called  "the  Winnows,"  a  disused  plantation  belonging  to 
Mr.  Tom  Lowmdes,  the  next  neighbor.  On  this  pkice  were 
large  fields  overgrowm  with  broom-grass,  interspersed  with 
small  pine-trees.  Here  there  were  quantities  of  quail. 
Gouv  Wilkins  had  fine  hunting-dogs,  pointers,  and  Miss 
Eliza  Wilkins  had  a  nice  brown  saddle-pony,  which  she 
did  not  ride  much,  so  she  lent  it  to  me  and  it  was  hke  hav- 
ing my  own  horse.  I  had  him  out  almost  every  day.  He 
was  broken  so  that  he  was  not  afraid  of  gun-fire,  and 
would  stand  so  still  that  one  could  shoot  from  his  back 
just  as  well  as  from  the  ground.  I  often  shot  quail  from 
his  back.  I  spent  almost  the  entire  winter  with  the  Wil- 
kinses,  but  as  I  went  shooting  almost  every  day  I  made  some 
return  for  their  hospitality  by  keeping  them  well  supplied 
w^ith  quail,  snipe,  doves,  and  ducks.  The  corn-stalks  in 
the  fields  are  not  cut  as  they  are  in  the  North,  but  the  cars 
of  corn  arc  picked  in  the  field  and  the  stalks  left  standing, 
and  these  immense  fields  of  standing  corn-stalks  were  a 
fine  cover  for  doves,  which  are  excellent  birds  for  eating. 


The  best  shooting  I  ever  did  was  to  kill  eleven  English 
snipe  out  of  thirteen  shots.  I  once  had  a  good  shot  at  a 
wild  turkey,  but  did  not  kill  him;  I  only  had  No.  8  quail- 
shot  and  it  was  too  fine,  duck-shot  being  needed.  There 
were  almost  impenetrable  swamps  adjoining  the  rice-fields, 
swarming  with  ducks.  I  well  remember  my  first  duck.  It 
was  a  mallard,  a  drake,  called  in  South  Carolina  an  English 
duck;  he  came  flying  over  my  head,  and  when  I  shot  him 
he  fell  directly  at  my  feet.  It  was  an  event  of  my  life. 
The  mallard  is  one  of  the  handsomest  ducks  that  fly, 
gray  with  beautifully  barred  wings  and  iridescent  head  and 

'Coon-hunting  was  a  favorite  night  amusement.  At 
first  I  went  out  with  some  of  the  negroes  who  had  'coon- 
dogs,  but  in  a  little  while  I  thought  that  it  would  be  fine  to 
have  two  dogs  from  home,  so  I  sent  to  Danskammer  and 
had  Wasp  and  Crib  sent  down,  and  they  soon  devel- 
oped into  excellent  'coon-dogs.  We  bought  Wasp  from 
the  Delanos'  coachman.  He  was  a  thoroughbred  black- 
and-tan  terrier,  but  the  largest  terrier  I  ever  saw,  very 
muscular  and  a  wonderful  runner  and  Jumper.  He  caught 
full-grown  rabbits  by  running  them  down,  and  could  jump 
a  board  fence  four  feet  high,  just  touching  it  with  his  feet 
as  he  went  over.  He  could  jump  up  and  take  a  piece  of 
bread  from  your  hand  stretched  up  to  its  full  height. 
Crib  was  a  white  bull-terrier,  with  a  black  patch  over 
his  eye  that  gave  him  a  sinister  look.  I  was  once  out 
with  Wasp  and  Crib  in  the  woods  when  we  started  an 
otter,  which  took  to  the  water  in  a  canal  in  the  woods. 
We  chased  him  some  distance  and  at  intervals  he  would 
appear  above  the  water  and  Wasp  would  jump  into  the 
water  right  on  top  of  him;  fortunately  he  did  not  close  with 
him,  because  otters  are  dangerous  beasts.     Finally  he  got 



under  a  bank  with  the  most  awful  growhng,  and  wc  could 
not  dislodge  him.  When  I  took  Wasp  and  Cril)  home 
to  New  York,  the  Wilkinses'  colored  coachman  took  mv 
in  the  carriage  with  the  dogs  down  to  Charleston.  Some 
man  came  along  and  admired  the  dogs,  and  the  old  coach- 
man, who  also  admired  them,  remarked:  "Dem's  not 
ornary  dogs;  dem's  nordern  dogs."  'Coon-hunting  was  a 
picturesque  sport;  two  or  three  darkies  would  bring  their 
dogs,  making,  with  Wasp  and  Crib,  quite  a  pack.  The 
'coon,  when  disturbed  by  the  dogs,  woukl  take  to  a  tree, 
then  one  of  the  negroes  would  light  a  torch  of  fat  pine, 
and  the  whole  company,  including  the  'coon  in  the  tree, 
would  be  lighted  up  by  the  blaze;  one  of  the  darkies 
would  climb  the  tree  and  shake  the  'coon  down  and  the 
dogs  w^ould  kill  it.  I  always  gave  the  'coons  to  the  negroes, 
much  to  their  delight.  We  never  found  a  'possum,  which 
they  esteem  even  more  than  the  'coon. 

There  were  also  black  and  gray  squirrels  in  abundance 
on  the  plantation,  and  many  rabbits.  The  Southern  rab- 
bit looks  like  the  Northern,  but  the  latter  is  a  hare  and 
has  a  hairy  foot,  while  the  Southern  cousin  has  a  foot  Hkc 
a  dog's.  The  snakes  were  the  most  unattractive  feature 
of  that  country.  They  swarmed  everywhere,  more  par- 
ticularly along  the  ditches  of  the  rice-fields,  which  are 
usually  bordered  with  low  bushes;  these  bushes  were  hter- 
ally  festooned  with  them.  They  were,  I  beheve,  usually 
harmless,  but  disgusting.  One  frequently  saw  black  snakes 
six  or  seven  feet  long  hanging  down  from  low  trees,  bii* 
one  had  to  get  used  to  them,  also  to  the  quantities  of  alli- 
gators in  the  swamps.  When  surprised  the  alligators 
would  take  to  the  water  and,  either  in  a  spirit  of  bravado 
or  curiosity,  they  would  submerge  entirely,  except  for  the 
extreme   tips  of  their   noses,   which   they   left  projectmg 



about  a  quarter  of  an  inch  above  the  surface,  and  sail  up 
and  down  for  a  long  while,  without  causing  a  ripple.  I 
frequently  fired  at  them,  but  with  no  success. 

The  Wilkinses  were  most  hospitable.  One  day  I  was 
riding  with  Gouv  near  Rantowle's,  when  two  gentlemen 
came  along  and  asked  if  there  was  any  hotel  near  there 
where  they  could  spend  the  night.  Gouv  told  them  the 
depressing  truth,  but  then  said  that  he  would  be  happy  to 
have  them  accept  his  hospitality,  and  that  if  they  would 
go  home  with  us  he  would  look  out  for  them.  This  they 
did,  ahhough  perfect  strangers. 

Mr.  William  Haskell  had  a  plantation  near  by  and  he 
would  sometimes  go  hunting  deer  w^ith  us;  he  was  an  excel- 
lent rider  and  looked  well  on  his  handsome  thoroughbred 
chestnut  mare.  I  admired  this  mare  so  much  that  he  once 
lent  her  to  me,  and  I  rode  down  to  Charleston  and  back, 
twenty  miles  each  w^ay.  I  went  down  in  the  morning,  had 
dinner  there,  and  came  home  in  the  afternoon,  forty  miles. 
We  had  many  fox-hunts  as  well  as  deer -hunts.  In  Caro- 
lina they  only  have  the  gray  fox,  which  is  not  like  the  red 
fox  that  will  make  a  long  run  straight  away,  for  he  keeps 
doubhng  so  that  you  may  hunt  him  a  long  while  in  a  con- 
fined space.  We  never  caught  one,  but  it  made  no  differ- 
ence, because  we  had  the  fun  of  riding,  and  an  occasional 
rail  fence  to  jump,  but  the  obstacles  w^re  usually  only 
ditches  or  fallen  logs.  Sometimes  the  countrymen,  "poor 
whites,"  or  "crackers,"  as  they  are  called,  would  join  in, 
bringing  their  hounds.  Every  man  had  a  dog  or  two,  and 
all  rode  little  ponies,  called  "tackeys."  These  were  com- 
plete saddle-horses,  very  small  but  active  and  pretty,  not 
ponies  but  little  horses.  These  "crackers"  were  a  very 
poor  class,  morally,  intellectually,  and  physically,  pretty 
low   down.     Even   the   negro   slaves   despised   them   and 



called  them  "poor  whites."  They  were  wretched-looking 
men,  and  as  they  lived  in  that  malarial  country  winter  and 
summer,  and  had  fever  and  ague  all  the  time,  they  were  so 
weak  and  languid  that  they  could  hardly  swing  themselves 
on  the  backs  of  their  little  horses. 

One  day  Gouv  Wilkins  took  me  down  to  Mr.  Hugh 
Wilson's  place  on  John's  Island,  about  twenty  miles  from 
Kelvin.  This  was  a  fine  plantation,  one  of  those  where 
they  raised  "sea-island  cotton,"  a  long-stapled  cotton  very 
celebrated,  and  only  raised,  I  believe,  on  the  coast  and 
islands  near  there.  Mr.  Wilson  had  a  deer-park  of  five 
thousand  acres,  fenced  in  and  kept  cxckisively  for  deer- 
hunting.  He  had  a  fine  pack  of  hounds  and  several  hunts- 
men. Gouverneur  Wilkins  rode  his  fine  brown  saddle-horse 
and  I  rode  Eliza's  brown  pony,  each  of  us  equipped  with 
saddle-bags  and  carrying  a  gun.  We  arrived  at  Mr.  Wil- 
son's place  in  time  for  dinner  and  were  handsomely  enter- 

Early  in  the  morning  of  the  second  day  of  our  visit  at 
John's  Island  we  went  deer-hunting.  Several  of  the  neigh- 
bors joined  in  the  hunt.  The  method  they  follow  there  in 
hunting  is  to  station  the  hunters  at  certain  points  where 
they  know  from  experience  that  the  deer  when  driven  out 
always  go.  Sitting  on  my  horse,  I  was  stationed  near  a 
sort  of  road  or  path,  looking  out  over  a  part  of  the  forest, 
thinly  wooded  with  tall  pine-trees;  I  heard  the  hounds  bay- 
ing, and  presently  I  saw  a  deer  loping  through  the  woods, 
on  its  way  to  pass  me  about  fifty  yards  away.  I  fired  and 
evidently  hit  him,  for  he  slackened  his  pace,  and  the  hounds 
coming  up  they  caught  him  after  he  had  gone  a  few  paces. 
It  was  my  first  deer  and  it  was  the  custom  to  mark  with 
blood  the  fortunate  hunter  when  he  bagged  his  first  deer. 
I  was  prepared  to  stand  it,  and  one  of  the  gentlemen  began 



to  bathe  his  hands  in  blood  preparatory  to  smearing  it  on 
my  face,  when  the  others  protested  and  they  let  me  off. 
Later  in  the  day  I  shot  another  one,  and  in  the  evening 
we  rode  home,  twenty  miles,  reaching  Kelvin  late  at  night. 
It  was  an  all-day  ride  and  rather  too  much  for  my  little 
pony.  I  have  been  deer -hunting  several  times  since,  but 
these  were  the  only  deer  I  ever  killed. 

Mr.  Wilson  had  known  my  grandfather,  Colonel  John 
Ward,  whose  place  was  near  by,  for  whom  he  had  a  great 
respect  and  regard.  I  wish  I  could  remember  my  grand- 
father Ward.  He  seems  to  have  been  an  ideal  grandfather. 
My  mother  often  told  us  about  the  Christmas  parties  he 
used  to  give  in  Charleston,  how  he  played  with  the  children 
and  told  them  dehghtful  stories  and  kept  them  all  in  a 
flutter  of  happiness. 

Colonel  Ward's  grandfather,  also  named  John,  came 
from  England  and  was  shipwrecked  on  his  way  to  Carolina, 
saving  nothing  but  a  fat  gold  watch  with  St.  George  and 
the  dragon  on  the  back,  which  I  now  have.  Colonel  Ward, 
who  served  in  the  United  States  army  in  the  War  of  1812, 
was  a  distinguished  lawyer  and  for  some  time  president  of 
the  Senate  of  South  Carohna.  The  diary  of  Edward 
Hooker,  of  Hartford,  who  chronicled  his  impressions  of 
the  South  in  1807,  while  a  professor  at  the  University  of 
South  Carolina,  describes  my  grandfather  as  president  of 
the  Senate,  "wearing  a  long  Hght  blue  satin  robe  edged 
with  white  fur."  He  goes  on  to  say:  "A  more  pleasing 
speaker  I  have  rarely  heard;  he  has  at  command  a  rich 
stock  of  words  and  ideas,  and  speaks  entirely  in  the  Sheri- 
danean  dialect,  which  is  used  by  most  educated  Charles- 
tonians.  Mr.  Ward  is  a  small  man — pleasant  and  face- 
tious disposition,  penetrating  look,  quick  and  graceful  in 
motion,  dignified  when  in  the  chair  but  a  little  prone  to 
levity  when  out  of  it." 



My  Grandfather  Ward  was  a  planter  as  well  as  a  law- 
yer. His  plantation  on  John's  Island  was  called  Seven 
Oaks  from  a  huge  seven-branched  live-oak  on  the  place. 
I  have  a  large  dinner-set  of  pink  Lowestoft  china  that  was 
buried  on  John's  Island  during  the  Revohition  when  the 
British  pillaged  the  neighborhood,  after  being  driven  out 
of  their  earthworks  in  the  battle  of  Stony  Ferry.  All 
treasures  that  were  not  carefully  hidden  were  stolen  or 
destroyed.  It  must  have  been  quite  a  job  to  bury  all 
that  china — over  a  hundred  pieces. 

Colonel  Ward  married  Mary  Somersall.  In  an  Inter- 
esting picture  by  Copley  which  I  have  she  is  represented 
as  a  young  girl  standing  by  the  seated  figures  of  her  mother 
and  grandmother,  Mrs.  Thomas  Hartley.  A  little  child, 
a  cousin,  who  was  afterward  Mrs.  Deas,  with  a  small 
dog,  complete  the  family  group.  The  picture  is  unusual, 
as  it  shows  three  generations  of  mothers  and  daughters; 
the  figure  of  the  old  lady  is  especially  well  painted. 

My  grandfather  Ward  is  buried  in  Trinity  Churchyard 
in  New  York,  next  to  the  tomb  of  Alexander  Hamilton. 
His  overseer,  who  begged  that  when  he  died  he  might  be 
buried  near  by,  lies  beside  him.  There  is  also  a  tablet  to 
his  memory  in  the  "Muniment  Room"  of  Trinity.  To 
my  mind  it  would  add  very  much  to  the  appearance  and 
certainly  to  the  interest  of  old  Trinity  if  the  monuments 
and  tablets  which  formerly  decorated  its  walls  were  put 
back  into  the  church.  I  have  heard  strangers  remark  that 
in  contrast  to  an  English  church  of  the  same  type  the  bare 
walls  of  Trinity  are  most  uninteresting. 

I  wish  very  much  that  I  had  been  able  to  go  to  Seven 
Oaks  when  I  was  staying  with  the  Wilsons.  My  brother 
Harry  knew^  the  place  well  and  often  visited  there.  He 
told  me  that  he  had  seen  in  the  neighboring  cottages  old 
tombstones  of  the  Ward  family  used  in  front  of  fireplaces 



and  front  doors  as  hearths^  and  door-steps.  Mr.  Wilson 
was  a  very  rich  man  at  the  time  I  stayed  at  his  beautiful 
old  place,  but  the  Civil  War  ruined  him;  he  lost  all  his 
slaves  and  his  plantation,  and  his  grandchildren  were  poor. 
He  was  a  fme  man,  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  who  kept 
open  house  and  was  an  all-round  sportsman.  He  not  only 
had  a  splendid  pack  of  hounds  and  fme  hunting-dogs,  but 
he  kept  beautiful  game-cocks,  each  of  which  had  his  sep- 
arate run.  My  brother  Harry  was  very  intimate  at  his 
house  and  spent  several  winters  there,  and  his  son  John, 
a  fme  rider  and  shot,  used  to  visit  us  at  Danskammer. 

This  winter  of  which  I  am  writing  my  three  brothers, 
Harry,  Gouv,  and  Jack,  spent  in  Charleston,  varying  their 
stay  there  by  visits  to  neighboring  plantations.  Jack  was 
a  member  of  the  South  Carohna  Jockey  Club  and  of  the 
Charleston  Club,  and  used  to  go  to  the  Saint  Ceciha  balls, 
all  of  which  it  was  considered  an  honor  to  belong  to.  He 
was  good-looking,  dressed  well,  and  enjoyed  the  society  of 
that  winter. 

I  was  too  young  to  go  to  the  Saint  Cecilias,  and  I  only 
attended  one  ball  in  Charleston,  which  was  at  the  Haynes*. 
Miss  Hattie  Hayne  was  a  beauty,  the  daughter  of  the 
celebrated  Hayne  who  debated  with  Daniel  Webster.  The 
Lowndes,  on  the  plantation  next  to  Kelvin,  had  a  very 
pleasant  party,  with  dancing  and  good  cheer,  and  there 
were  several  parties  in  the  neighborhood,  to  all  of  which  I 
went — there  were  some  pretty  cousins  of  the  Lowndes's 
named  Brisbane — but  my  time  was  chiefly  spent  in  shoot- 
ing, fox  and  deer  hunting,  and  as  I  was  already  fond  of 
sketching  from  nature  I  made  several  sketches  of  Kelvin 
and  the  neighborhood. 

I  attended  the  races  one  day  at  the  Annual  Meet  at  the 
Charleston  Race  Course,  a  celebrated  course  and  a  great 
society  event.     During  that  year  two  famous  horses  had 



been  competing  at  all  the  race-courses  throughout  the 
country  and  creating  great  interest;  they  were  Nina, 
sired  by  Revenue,  and  Red  Eye,  sired  by  Boston,  who 
also  was  the  sire  of  Lexington.  The  excitement  over 
their  races  was  intense,  partly  because  it  was  a  contest 
between  the  get  of  Revenue  and  Boston,  great  rivals. 
If  I  remember  rightly,  Red  Eye  was  usually  the  winner. 
The  day  I  was  there  Red  Eye  was  entered  in  a  four-mile 
race,  but  as  Nina  was  not  on  hand,  and  no  other  horse 
dared  to  meet  the  famous  champion,  he  ran  the  four  miles 
alone  in  order  to  win  the  purse.  He  was  a  splendid 
powerful  bay  horse. 

The  earliest  races  in  Carolina  were  in  1734  on  a  green 
on  Charleston  neck,  the  prize  being  a  saddle  and  bridle 
valued  at  twenty  pounds.  In  those  early  times  the  horses 
were  of  the  Chickasaw  breed,  a  stock  introduced  into 
Florida  by  the  Spaniards,  small  but  active  animals.  But 
very  soon  fme  horses  were  imported  from  abroad.  There 
was  a  famous  horse  called  Abdallah,  brought  from 
Arabia  to  Gibraltar  and  from  there  to  Port  Royal  not  long 
before  the  Revohition,  who  was  sixteen  hands  high  and 
had  never  been  ridden  until  Mr.  Frank  Huger,  being  dared 
to  mount  him,  "put  his  hand  upon  the  flowing  mane  of 
the  snorting  animal,  with  one  bound  vaulted  upon  his 
back,  and  sat  hke  an  equestrian  statue,  unmoved!" 

Flimnap,  a  black  Godolphin  Arabian  bred  by  Sir 
John  Moore  and  later  owned  by  Major  Harleston,  of  Caro- 
lina, was  another  great  horse.  He  had  a  narrow  escape 
in  the  War  of  181 2,  for  the  British  Major  Tarleton  was  so 
anxious  to  get  hold  of  him  that  he  actually  hung  a  negro 
stable-boy  to  a  tree  because  he  would  not  tell  where  he 
was  hidden  in  a  swamp.  Luckily  the  Redcoats  rode  away 
in  time  for  the  boy  to  be  cut  down. 

Before  going  home  that  winter  I  spent  three  very  pleas- 



ant  weeks  at  my  cousin  Ellen  Screven's  place  near  Poco- 
taligo,  Castle  Hill,  named,  I  suppose,  after  Uncle  Gouv's 
place  in  Westchester  of  which  I  have  spoken  in  a  previous 
chapter.  I  went  up  by  a  steamboat,  stopping  at  Beaufort 
for  dinner  with  some  relations  of  the  Screvens.  Part  of 
the  way  the  boat  ran  out  to  sea  and  I  was  very  seasick,  but 
quite  late  in  the  evening  we  left  the  sea  and  sailed  along  a 
river,  and  when  about  midnight  we  landed  I  had  recovered 
and  was  fearfully  hungry.  At  the  landing  a  man  was 
waiting  for  me  and  we  had  a  considerable  drive  before  we 
reached  Castle  Hill,  arriving  so  late  that  the  family  had 
gone  to  bed.  I  was  cold  and  hungry,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  the  bright  fire  and  cheerful,  warm  dining-room,  and, 
best  of  all,  some  delicious  wild  ducks — they  were  teal — and 
a  decanter  of  sherry. 

The  Screvens  were  dehghtfully  hospitable  and  let  me 
do  just  as  I  pleased  there.  They  were  still  young,  with 
five  httle  children,  and  lived  handsomely  in  extreme  com- 
fort. They  had  a  stable  of  good  horses,  and  I  had  a  mount 
whenever  I  w^anted  one;  and  the  shooting  was  excellent, 
particularly  ducks.  There  was  a  large  reserve  for  flooding 
the  rice-fields,  filled  with  flocks  of  ducks,  and  at  the  upper 
end  of  it  a  river  where  blue-winged  teal  abounded.  I 
would  go  up  this,  shooting  as  I  went,  and  then  down;  up 
and  down  as  long  as  you  wished,  all  the  time  the  birds 
rising  before  you.  Screven  had  a  large  rice  plantation, 
and  to  house  his  slaves  had  a  good-sized  village  of  white 
cabins,  where  the  negroes  were  comfortable  and  seemed 
happy.  These  negroes  had  formerly  belonged  to  Colonel 
Ward,  who  had  left  four  hundred  slaves  to  my  Aunt  Mary, 
Mrs.  Gouverneur  Wilkins,  but  only  a  few  to  my  mother, 
as  she  did  not  care  to  own  slaves.  The  few  she  inherited 
she  set  free.     When  I  was  staying  with  the  Screvens  I  had 



a  brisk  little  darky  about  my  own  age  allotted  to  mc,  who 
brought  water  for  my  bath,  blacked  my  boots,  ran  errands 
for  me,  and  was  always  at  my  command. 

As  Screven  was  then  very  prosperous,  he  was  adding  to 
his  slaves  whenever  he  had  a  chance  to  buy  a  good  one. 
To  show  what  they  cost,  just  before  I  went  there  he  Ix)ught 
a  carpenter  for  whom  he  paid  thirty-seven  hundred  dollars. 
The  planters  were  then  at  the  height  of  their  glory.  John 
H.  Screven  served  in  the  Confederate  army,  I  think  as 
major.  At  the  close  of  the  war  he  was  ruined,  lost  all  his 
slaves,  and  when  I  saw  him  later  at  Mr.  Wilkins's  place  in 
Westchester  he  had  nothing  but  his  bare  land  in  South 
Carolina.  Some  of  his  TurnbuII  grandchildren  now  own 
the  plantation  Castle  Hill,  and  often  spend  their  winters 

This  winter  at  the  South  was  delightful  and  one  of  the 
pleasantest  times  of  my  life — no  care  and  lots  ot  lun.  There 
was  no  continuous  railway  to  Charleston  in  those  days  and 
one  had  to  travel  back  and  forth  by  steamers,  which,  on 
the  whole,  were  excellent.  Going  down  had  been  my  first 
experience  of  the  sea.  Returning,  I  left  the  South  lookmg 
like  summer,  the  woods  fdled  with  jasmine.  I  arrived 
at  New  York  on  the  24th  of  April,  and  when  I  stepped  off 
the  steamer  there  was  deep  snow  on  the  ground.  It  was 
at  night,  so  I  went  to  the  Stevens  House  on  Broadway 
near  the  corner  of  Rector  Street.  It  was  a  good  hotel; 
later  occupied  down-stairs  by  a  branch  of  Delmonico's.  I 
was  accompanied  by  Wasp  and  Crib,  who  were  soon  safely 
at  home  at  Danskammcr. 

Martin  Wilkins  was  a  delightful  fellow.  He  visited  us 
at  Danskammer  in  the  summer  of  1855,  at  the  same  time 
with  Lewis  TurnbuII  and  Elisha  Tracy,  both  of  whom 
had  just  graduated  from  Trinity  College.     We  all  sparred, 



except  Martin,  and  used  to  adjourn  to  the  garret,  which 
was  an  enormous  room  covering  the  whole  top  story  of 
the  Danskammer  house.  This  had  a  fine  open  floor  and 
Lewis  TurnbuH  and  I  had  a  series  of  set-to's  there.  We 
sparred  so  briskly  that  both  he  and  I  got  pretty  bad  black 
eyes.  We  had  decided  that  we  must  all  visit  West  Point 
and  spend  the  day  and  night  there,  but  we  were  almost 
deterred  from  going  on  account  of  the  black  eyes,  but  I 
tried  my  hand  at  painting  them  in  water-colors  so  that 
they  were  not  very  perceptible.  We  went  to  Cranston's 
Hotel,  but  as  that  was  crowded  and  no  rooms  were 
available,  they  put  four  cots  for  us  in  the  cupola  and  we 
slept  up  there. 

Long  after  this  Southern  winter  of  mine,  in  1897,  I  got 
a  letter  from  Gouv  Wilkins,  whom  I  knew  so  well  then, 
speaking  of  the  sad  fate  of  Kelvin  and  all  those  other  fine 
old  country  places. 

"When  you  visited  Kelvin  in  1853,"  he  writes,  "you 
made  a  painting  of  the  residence,  and  if  it  lacked  the 
element  of  beauty  it  was  the  fault  of  the  house  for  you 
certainly  portrayed  it  correctly.  I  do  not  think  we  have 
met  since  and  what  changes  have  taken  place!  My  last 
visit  to  New  York  was  in  1858  and  since  then  what  changes 
there — Fourteenth  Street  was  almost  out  of  town  ! 

"Mr.  Lowndes,  my  father-in-law,  died  penniless.  In 
1855  he  bought  Kelvin  from  my  mother  and  also  the  Has- 
kell plantation  above  it,  and  added  them  to  his  property 
below,  the  whole  costing  him  near  fifty  thousand  dollars, 
which  he  paid  in  cash.  All  of  them  together  were  sold  in 
1886  to  pay  his  debts  and  brought  at  pubfic  sale  only 
$7500.  This,  with  the  loss  of  two  hundred  negroes,  ex- 
plains his  insolvency.  He  had  a  dwelling  house  on  each 
of  the  four  plantations,  and  all  were  burned  by  the  Federal 



troops,  after  the  evacuation  of  Charleston  and  the  coast 
by  the  Confederates.  The  brick  house  at  his  home  place, 
which  you  will  remember,  was  occupied  for  several  weeks 
as  headquarters  by  Colonel  Beecher  (brother  to  Henry 
Ward  Beecher).  On  leaving  he  set  fire  to  it  and  it  and 
all  its  contents  were  burned  to  the  ground,  leaving  only 
the  chimneys  standing,  which  the  earthquake  shook  down. 
At  Kelvin  they  made  a  clean  sweep,  even  the  negro  houses 
were  burned,  and  when  I  went  there  in  the  fall  of  1865 
there  could  not  have  been  found  enough  plank  to  make  a 
soap  box. 

"Thank  God,  my  home  life  is  the  best  that  I  could 
wish.  Through  all,  my  wife  is  as  contented  and  cheerful 
as  in  the  early  days  of  our  married  hfe^when  she  was  sur- 
rounded with  every  comfort." 




"  River  and  race  and  game,  gay  leaping  of  brook  and  hedge : 
Perils  on  happy  heights,  and  pleasure  nearest  the  edge: 
Something  we  gain  as  we  Hve:  but  youth  has  departed." 

— Palgrave. 

I  entered  Trinity  College,  Hartford,  in  September, 
1854,  and  had  been  there  only  a  day  or  two  when  I  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Rhoades  Fisher,  a  tall,  gallant-looking 
fellow  from  Texas  with  red  hair,  who  asked  me  to  room 
with  him  at  32  Jarvis  Hall.  He  didn't  graduate,  and 
after  he  left  at  the  end  of  the  year  I  thenceforth  roomed 
there  alone.  Those  were  primitive  days:  not  a  bathroom 
in  the  whole  college,  not  even  water  in  our  building;  it  all 
had  to  be  brought  from  the  yard.  I  bought  a  big  wash- 
tub,  and  a  darky,  an  old  fellow  named  Adams,  brought 
up  a  pail  of  water  every  morning  and  made  my  fire.  He 
was  a  character,  and  I  became  quite  attached  to  him 
during  the  three  years  that  he  ministered  to  my  wants. 
We  were  obhged  to  furnish  our  own  rooms,  and  supply 
our  own  hghts  and  fuel,  though  we  had  the  luxury  of  a  coal- 
closet.  Strange  to  say,  in  this  inland  retreat  of  ours  the 
beds  were  in  two  berths,  hke  those  at  sea,  with  curtains 
that  drew  in  front  of  them.  We  used  camphene  for  our 
lamps;  I  well  remember  filhng  one,  leaving  the  wick  lighted 
while  I  poured  in  the  camphene,  when  suddenly  it  exploded, 
and  can,  lamp,  and  all  shot  across  the  room,  leaving  a 
trail  of  fire  behind  it  and  burning  a  broad  swath  in  the 
carpet.     Outside  my  window  hung  a  canary.     This  bird 



had  appeared  on  the  campus  one  afternoon  after  chapel, 
and  in  a  moment  the  whole  college  was  in  full  cry  after 
him.  I  didn't  make  any  particular  effort  to  catch  him, 
but  somehow  he  flew  right  into  my  hand;  so  I  got  him  a 
cage  and  cherished  him  for  a  long  time.  One  day  as  he 
was  hanging  there  in  the  sunshine  the  string  broke,  and 
down  he  fell,  three  stories,  to  the  pavement,  without  being 
hurt.  That  bird  had  a  charmed  Hfe.  I  Hved  four  years 
in  32  Jarvis  HaO,  and  just  before  I  graduated  I  carved  my 
name  and  "Phi  Kappa  Fraternity"  on  the  stone  shelf 
outside  my  window,  and  looked  forward  to  my  return  in 
years  to  come  and  finding  it  still  there.  Alas !  in  a  few 
years  old  Jarvis  was  torn  down,  when  the  new  college  was 
built,  and  all  these  old  records  are  gone. 

The  old  college  had  been  built  in  1824 — Washington 
College  it  was  called  then,  but  in  my  day  it  had  long  been 
known  as  Trinity.  Seabury  Hall  was  in  the  centre,  with 
Brownell  Hall  and  Jarvis  Hall  at  the  ends;  Seabury  was  a 
classic  building,  designed  by  Samuel  Morse  of  telegraph 
fame,  with  large  columns  in  front,  and  containing  the  dor- 
mitories and  classrooms.  This  group  of  buildings  stood 
at  the  head  of  College  Street,  just  where  the  State  House 
now  stands,  overlooking  the  whole  city  across  a  wide  ex- 
panse of  green  lawn,  and  backed  by  a  lovely  wood  through 
which  a  green  lane  ran  down  to  a  picturesque  little  river 
known  as  the  "Hog."  This  stream  meandered  far  back 
into  the  country  and  we  had  splendid  skating  there  in 
winter.  "Mile  after  mile,"  as  an  old  Trinity  man  said, 
"have  I  skated  on  its  reaches  with  the  red  squirrel  follow- 
ing me  on  the  banks." 

During  my  first  two  years  at  college  the  president  was 
Doctor  Goodwin,  who  later  became  head  of  the  Theological 
Seminary  in  Philadelphia.     He  was  a  scholar   but  a  cold, 



unsympathetic  man;  he  was  very  handsome,  and  looked,  I 
have  always  thought,  like  one  of  Fra  Bartolomeo's  prophets. 
We  had  a  year's  German  with  him — we  actually  read  the 
whole  of  "Faust"— but  I  don't  know  a  single  word  of  Ger- 
man now.     We  also,  I  remember,  studied  Whewell's  ''Ele- 
ments of  Morahty"  with  him  (I  believe  I  have  the  title 
right),  and  thereby  hangs  a  tale.     There  was  a  Jew  whose 
name  I  don't  know,  but  we  always  called  him  Amsterdam,  a 
dealer  in  old  clothes,  cigars,  pictures,  and  all  sorts  of  things. 
He  also  carried  on  a  brisk  little  business  in  money-lending 
— the  tightness  of  the  money  market  often  constraining  us 
to  pawn  our  watches  and  any  other  jewelry  we  possessed, 
and  for  the  same  reason  we  did  not  often  actually  buy  his 
wares,  but  bartered  our  old  clothes  for  his  more  interesting 
objets  d'art.     Of  course  I — being  I — managed  to  acquire 
a  lot  of  pictures  by  this  means,  and  as  I  decorated  my 
room  in  other  ways,  it  was  considered  one  of  the  show- 
rooms of  the  college.     One  of  these  pictures  of  mine  was 
a  colored  Hthograph  of  "Venus  Rising  from  the  Sea."     It 
was  not  an  improper  picture.     I  thought  it  would  be  good 
practice  to  copy  this  picture  in  oil.     So  one  pleasant,  quiet 
June  morning  I  was  busily  engaged  in  painting,  when  I 
felt  a  hand  upon  my  shoulder  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  the 
stern   face  of  Doctor  Goodwin  gazing   in   horror  at  my 
Venus.     I  don't  recall  now  what  he  said,  but  his  looks 
were  enough.     His  face  bore  the  expression  of  one  who 
looks  down  from  the  sanctuary  of  Abraham's  bosom  on  a 
soul  in  perdition,  and  he  gave  me  a  good  blowing-up  as 
soon  as  he  found  his  voice.     By  the  irony  of  fate,  that  very 
afternoon  we  had  our  lesson  on  Whewell's  "Elements  of 
Morahty."     I  was  called  up  and  flunked,  as   I  couldn't 
paint  and  look  over  my  lesson  as  well,  and  when  it  became 
only  too  clear  that   I   could  not  recite,  Doctor  Goodwin 



roared  in  a  voice  of  thunder:  "If  you  had  not  been  engaged 
in  reprehensible  pursuits  this  morning,  sir,  you  would  prob- 
ably have  known  your  lesson!  Sit  down,  sir!"  I  am 
happy  to  say,  however,  that  I  was  told  by  a  friend  in  after 
years  that  Doctor  Goodwin  "remembered  me  with  pleasure 
and  affection,"  so  perhaps  he  had  forgotten  our  interview 
about  the  Venus,  or  possibly  through  the  mist  of  years  he 
was  able  to  view  it  more  leniently  than  on  that  June  morn- 
ing long  ago. 

I  spent  all  my  spare  cash  at  college  in  hiring  saddle- 
horses.  There  was  an  excellent  thoroughbred  mare  that  I 
liked  especially,  and  on  Saturdays  we  used  to  make  up 
parties  and  ride  out  to  "Wadsworth's  Tower" — afterward 
owned  by  the  Elys — where  there  is  a  lake  on  top  of  the 
mountain.  I  remember  riding  there  one  Saturday  with 
Alexander  Preston  and  some  other  fellows;  I  had  a  new 
gray  coat  that  I  had  never  worn,  and  when  Preston  sug- 
gested borrowing  it  I  felt  greatly  honored,  as  I  was  a  fresh- 
man and  he  a  senior,  and  it  gave  me  real  pleasure  to  have 
him  ride  in  it  all  day,  but  reflecting  on  it  now  it  seems  a 
poor  reason  for  giving  up  my  brand-new  coat. 

Athletics  were  not  much  cultivated  in  those  days,  but 
we  had  one  of  the  first  boat  clubs  in  any  college  and  had 
two  fast  race-boats.  We  had  two  spirited  races  with  the 
town  club  of  Hartford,  winning  the  first  but  losing  the 
second  because  we  broke  a  rowlock.  I  was  stroke, 
although  the  smallest  man  in  the  club.  In  1858  the  Col- 
lege Union  Regatta  at  Worcester  was  established  by  Har- 
vard, Yale,  Brown,  and  Trinity. 

Sparring  was  one  of  my  chief  interests  in  college. 
When  I  was  seventeen  I  had  been  taught  to  box  by  Ottig- 
non,  the  owner  of  the  gymnasium  in  Crosby  Street,  an 
enormous  man  over  six  feet  high  and  weighing  two  hun- 



dred  pounds,  but  very  agile,  nevertheless.  And  now  at 
college  I  took  sparring  lessons  from  Charley  Brewster,  one 
of  the  best  sparrers  I  have  ever  seen.  I  began  with  him 
in  my  freshman  year  and  sparred  with  him  all  through  my 
college  course,  and  he  taught  me  that  any  ordinary  man 
could  knock  a  bigger  man  down  if  he  knew  how  to  aim 
his  blow  aright  and  how  to  keep  his  opponent  from  closing 
with  him.  I  got  to  be  pretty  good;  in  fact,  Brewster  said 
I  was  "too  good  to  spar  with  a  gentleman !" 

In  my  day  hazing  was  rife  in  all  the  colleges;  somehow 
or  other  I  managed  to  escape  it,  but  I  confess  that  I  joy- 
fully assisted  in  the  hazing  of  others.  In  our  sophomore 
year  we  thought  it  advisable  to  haze  a  freshman  named 
Short.  I  don't  remember  any  reason  for  this  except  that 
his  name  and  person  were  so  incongruous — instead  of  being 
short  he  was  extremely  long,  being  about  six  feet  six.  The 
affair  was  arranged  in  this  way.  One  afternoon,  just  after 
chapel,  we  captured  Short  and  rushed  him  out  by  the  back 
way,  where  we  had  a  carriage  waiting  to  take  him  down 
into  the  town,  where  we  proposed  to  try  him  for  his  alleged 
offenses.  The  carriage  got  off  all  right  and  drove  around 
by  way  of  the  station.  Where  the  triumphal  arch  now 
stands  was  situated  the  jail,  and  next  to  it  was  a  terraced 
bank  about  ten  feet  high,  on  top  of  which  ran  a  sidewalk. 
I  was  on  my  way  down  to  the  trial  when  I  heard  shouts  of 
rage  and  saw  Short  approaching,  sprinting  hke  anything 
and  making  good  time  with  his  long  legs.  He  had  escaped 
from  the  carriage  and  was  being  pursued  by  his  captors, 
but  they  had  no  chance  of  catching  him,  and  I  saw  I  was 
the  only  obstacle  between  him  and  sanctuary  at  the  col- 
lege. He  thought,  of  course,  that  with  his  great  weight 
and  height  he  could  run  right  over  me  as  I  stood  facing  him 
in  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk,  but  just  as  he  reached  me  I 



stepped  aside,  put  out  my  foot,  and  sent  him  rolling  head- 
long down  the  grass  to  the  foot  of  the  terrace.  There  I 
managed  to  hold  him  until  the  other  sophomores  arrived 
and  secured  him.  We  tried  him — on  these  occasions  we 
had  regular  courts,  judge,  counsel  on  both  sides,  etc. — and 
he  was  convicted  of  being  too  tall,  and  condemned  to  drink, 
as  he  was  a  temperance  man,  three  glasses  of  lager-beer. 
Just  as  the  penalty  was  being  enforced  his  class  found  out 
where  he  was,  broke  down  the  door,  and  after  a  free  fight 
rescued  him.  Short  afterward  studied  for  the  ministry 
and  more  than  forty  years  later  I  met  some  of  his  family 
in  North  Hadley,  by  whom  he  sent  me  affectionate  mes- 
sages, so  he  cherished  no  animosity. 

A  college  character  was  ** Professor  Jim,"  the  janitor, 
a  fine  old  darky.  He  had  been  born  a  slave  in  the  family 
of  Colonel  Philip  Rhinelander  Robert,  of  Pomona  Hall  at 
Yonkers,  which  afterward  belonged  to  Sidney  Morsc^  the 
son  of  Professor  Morse,  and  he  used  to  tell  us  tales  of 
Aaron  Burr,  whom  he  had  often  seen  at  the  house,  and  of 
his  adventures  after  he  ran  away  to  sea  in  the  War  of  1812. 
Finally  Jim  turned  up  at  Hartford  at  about  the  same  time 
that  Bishop  Brownell  became  the  first  president  of  Trinity, 
and  soon  became  one  of  the  bishop's  servants.  Jim's 
grand  crack  of  the  whip,  as  he  wheeled  the  bishop's  gig 
close  to  the  church  steps  when  he  drove  about  the  country 
on  his  visitations,  has  never  been  forgotten,  nor  the  ele- 
gance of  his  manner  as  he  assisted  the  bishop  to  alight 
and  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  turned  him  over  to  the  rector 
and  wardens  in  attendance.  He  was  a  little  man  with 
snow-white  hair  when  I  knew  him,  and  looked  a  good  deal 
like  a  monkey,  but  he  had  a  certain  dignity  withak 

"Professor  Jim"  was  always  popular  with  the  students, 
for  if  he  caught  them  in  a  scrape  he  never  told,  but  at  the 



same  time  he  contrived  to  be  loyal  to  the  college.  He 
was  a  feature  of  Class  Day,  resplendent  in  a  dress  suit 
and  high  hat,  and  was  always  presented  with  some  token 
of  affection  from  the  senior  class.  His  speeches  in  return 
are  still  remembered.     One  ran  in  part  as  follows: 

"Gentlemen,  our  communion  has  been  sweet  together, 
our  words  has  been  soft,  and  what  you  knows  I  knows  and 
nobody  else  knows !  How  you  worried  and  studied  all 
night  after  you'd  been  off,  for  fear  you  wouldn't  get  your 
conditions — how  you  had  to  be  dragged  out  from  under 
the  bed,  sometimes,  to  visit  the  faculty — how  you  got  along 
nicely  till  you  run  against  chronics — chronics  was  hard ! 
Gentlemen,  your  secrets  is  mine !  Though  you  stopped  up 
the  key-hole  with  putty  and  froze  up  the  bell,  I  got  along 
somehow !  You're  soon  going  to  leave  this  splendid  can- 
vas— don't  forget  the  high  privileges  that  has  been  granted 
you  here,  and  the  benefit  of  a  Supreme  Being  you  ought 
to  appreciate  as  gentlemen!" 

At  our  Class  Day  the  class  was  assembled  on  the  lawn 
in  a  semicircle  in  front  of  Seabury  Hall  facing  the  chapel 
steps  where  the  speeches  were  made.  I  suppose  the 
president  sat  in  Bishop  Berkeley's  famous  chair  just  as  he 
does  nowadays,  but  I  don't  remember — the  chair  was  not 
such  an  heirloom  then  as  it  is  now — neither  do  I  remember 
much  about  my  oration.  I  was  class  orator,  but  I  shall 
never  forget  the  splendid  peroration  of  "Professor  Jim's'* 

"My  dear  young  friends,  we  have  come  to  parting  and 
you  must  remember  that  while  you  are  acfvancing  I  will 
be  c/evancing.  You  will  all  be  scattered  all  over  the  world; 
some  of  you  may  go  to  Asia,  some  to  Africa,  some  maybe 
to  the  sandy  shores  of  Arabia,  but  wherever  you  go,  my  dear 
boys,  my  heart  will  go  with  you  to  any  part  of  the  State !" 



In  my  senior  year  an  astonishing  thing  happened — I 
was  awarded  the  chemistry  prize  for  the  best  essay  "On 
the  Chemical  Constitution,  Properties,  and  Uses  of  Water." 
No  one  w^as  more  surprised  at  my  gaining  it  than  \.  The 
award  was  made  by  Professor  Jackson,  Doctor  Oliver,  and 
some  other  distinguished  scientists  of  Boston,  and  one  of 
them  told  my  friend  Prescott  that  he  Hked  my  essay  be- 
cause it  was  so  evidently  written  by  a  gentleman — a  strange 
consideration  in  a  matter  of  chemistry !  It  has  always 
amused  me  to  see  my  name  in  the  college  catalogue  among 
the  winners  of  the  Sheffield  prize.  I  elected  to  take  my 
twenty-five-dollar  prize  in  books,  and  my  choice  of  Mrs. 
Jameson's  books  on  ecclesiastical  art  I  have  often  found 
useful  in  my  profession.  There  were  no  schools  of  art  in 
those  days  in  any  of  the  colleges,  and  I  don't  think  that  a 
single  one  of  my  fellow  collegians  could  draw  a  line;  so  I 
was  always  selected  to  do  any  drawing  that  was  required, 
such  as  tail-pieces  for  catalogues,  specimens  in  natural 
philosophy  for  Professor  Brocklcsby,  etc.  In  my  senior 
year  I  got  a  good  deal  of  fun  out  of  preparing  and  illustrat- 
ing a  catalogue  of  my  fraternity,  Phi  Kappa,  which  we 

I   fancy  every  one  would  have  agreed  tiiat  the  most 

promising  man  in  the  Class  of  'y^  was  Elisha  T- ;  a 

handsome  fellow,  of  good  family,  with  a  fme  education  and 
lots  of  ability,  and  quite  well  off.  He  and  I  roomed  to- 
gether in  New  York  for  a  while  after  leaving  college,  and 
he  was  awfully  kind  to  me  when  I  was  ill.  I  remember  an 
odd  labor-saving  habit  that  he  had.  On  Saturday  nights 
he  would  shave,  take  a  hot  bath,  put  on  a  clean  "boiled 
shirt"  with  the  studs  in  place;  in  fact,  dress  himself  com- 
pletely, except  for  his  boots  and  outer  clothing,  stretch 
himself  flat  on  his  back,  and  go  peacefully  to  sleep.     As  he 



was  able  to  sleep  without  changing  his  position  a  particle 
he  was  all  ready  for  church  the  next  morning. 

Later  on  he  roomed  with  Joseph  H.  Choate,  who  was  a 
great  friend  of  his.  In  fact,  it  was  he  who  first  introduced 
me  to  Mr.  Choate.  Then  came  the  Civil  War  and  perhaps 
army  life  made  him  restless;  anyway,  after  that  he  went 
steadily  down  in  the  world  until  at  last  his  friends  clubbed 
together  and  got  him  into  the  Old  Men's  Home  on  Amster- 
dam Avenue.  He  and  Choate  had  started  life  pretty 
evenly    equipped;   Choate   ended   his   career   honored   the 

world  over  and  T died  at  almost  the  same  time  in  an 

old  men's  home.  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Choate  when  he  was 
ambassador  in  London,  asking  him  to  contribute  to  the 

fund  for  T ,  and  he  sent  me  fifty  dollars,  remarking  in 

his  letter:  "I  have  watched  Elisha  T 's  long  but  sure 

descent  into  the  gutter  with  great  interest  and  wonder;  as 
he  seemed  to  have  no  vice  it  was  a  perfect  mystery !" 

But  Mr.  Choate  put  it  too  strongly.     T never  got 

as  far  down  as  the  gutter.  He  always  preserved  a  neat, 
pleasant  appearance,  and  no  one  meeting  him  would  have 
thought  him  other  than  a  gentleman  of  leisure  in  good 
circumstances.  I  really  believe  the  years  he  spent  in  the 
Home  were  the  happiest  of  his  life.  Luckily  he  was  a 
member  of  the  Phi  Kappa  Chapter  of  Alpha  Delta  Phi, 
and  the  Fraternity  House  at  Columbia  seemed  to  give  him 
everything  he  needed.  He  had  a  fund  of  anecdote  and 
sang  good  comic  songs,  and  the  young  fellows  grew  really 
fond  of  him.  He  died  not  long  ago  and  I  was  present  at 
his  funeral,  quite  an  imposing  affair,  the  Episcopal  service 
supplemented  by  certain  fraternal  ceremonies  and  attended 
by  all  the  brethren  of  the  Columbia  Chapter  of  Alpha 
Delta  Phi.  His  young  friends  spoke  of  him  with  regret 
and  affection.  So  perhaps  his  life  was  not  such  an  utter 
failure,  after  alL 



This  story  shows  the  good  side  of  fraternity  life,  though 
I  can  see  the  disadvantages  of  college  fraternities  as  they 
were  in  my  time,  how  they  cut  you  off  from  intimacies 
outside  and  fostered  cxckisiveness.  But  we  stuck  up  for 
each  other  on  all  occasions;  a  member  of  one's  fraternity 
could  do  no  wrong;  and  loyalty  through  thick  and  thin  is 
a  pretty  good  thing  to  count  on  in  a  friend. 

My  fraternity  life  and  all  its  associations  are  among  my 
dearest  recollections.  I  was  a  member  of  Phi  Kappa, 
founded  in  1835;  it  was  a  senior  society,  i.  e.,  one  did  not 
wear  a  pin  until  senior  year,  and  although  boys  became 
members  from  freshman  year  up,  their  association  with  the 
fraternity  was  kept  a  profound  secret.  The  friendships 
formed  in  it  were  something  different  from  anything  I  have 
experienced  in  after  Hfe.  The  rivalry  among  the  various 
fraternities  at  Trinity  was  tremendous  and  the  feeh'ng 
intense;  so  much  so  that  it  was  considered  a  deadly-  insult 
to  even  mention  the  name  of  a  man's  fraternity.  If  this 
custom  were  trifled  with  in  any  way  it  was  apt  to  be  "a 
word  and  a  blow." 

During  the  Civil  War  almost  all  the  students  of  Trinity 
went  to  the  front,  and  the  membership  of  the  Phi  Kappa 
was  reduced  to  one  man,  Hovey,  afterward  rector  of  the 
fme  old  church  in  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire.  This 
splendid  isolation  made  Hovey  feci  lonely,  so  he  decided 
to  give  up  the  fraternity  and  turned  all  the  archives  over 
to  a  committee  of  the  old  graduates,  by  whom  they  were 
burned,  and  joined  a  rival  local  fraternity  called  the  L  K.  A. 
It  looked  as  if  the  Phi  Kappa  were  extinct.  However,  in 
1865,  or  thereabouts,  eight  or  ten  young  men  left  St. 
James's  College  in  MaryLind  and  came  to  Trinity — St. 
James's  was  also  an  Episcopal  college  and  a  very  nice  class 
of  fellows  went  there.  It  had  long  been  a  sort  of  custom 
for  men  from  St.  James's  to  go  to  Trinity,  and  as  many 



of  them  had  become  members  of  Phi  Kappa,  the  fraternity 
was  well  known  there  and  liked.  These  men  got  together 
and  decided  that  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  revive  the  Phi 
Kappa,  so  they  consulted  me  and  I  agreed  to  go  to  Trinity 
and  initiate  them. 

On  my  way  up  to  Hartford  I  met  Hovey  in  the  train, 
but  I  did  not  tell  him  of  my  errand.  He  told  me  how  sorry 
he  was  to  leave  the  Phi  Kappa — how  fond  he  was  of  it — 
how  deeply  he  regretted  that  it  had  become  extinct.  I 
hstened  and  made  no  observations.  The  boys  were  in- 
itiated. Next  morning  when  they  all  appeared  with  their 
Phi  Kappa  pins  it  was  a  real  triumph.  Although  I  never 
spoke  of  it  again  to  Hovey,  I  think  that  he  was  sorry  he 
had  been  faint-hearted,  for  thenceforth  the  fraternity  pros- 
pered, and  about  1880  it  was  merged  in  the  Alpha  Delta 
Phi,  one  of  the  leading  fraternities  in  Trinity  and  in  many 
other  colleges.  At  one  time  there  was  a  chapter  at  Harvard 
and  Joseph  H.  Choate  was  a  member.  Since  his  day  all 
the  secret  societies  have  been  abolished  there  and  Alpha 
Delta  Phi  went  with  the  rest. 

Edward  Coleman  Jacobs  was  another  of  my  college 
friends — a  nephew  by  marriage  of  Bishop  H.  C.  Potter. 
He  was  a  talented  fellow,  made  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  and 
was  reputed  the  best-dressed  man  in  college.  After  grad- 
uating at  the  Harvard  Law  School  he  went  into  the  law 
office  of  Mr.  John  H.  Glover  in  New  York.  But  the  law 
proved  too  sedate  a  mistress;  he  went  West,  travelled 
among  the  Indians,  and  disappeared  into  space.  It  was 
supposed  that  he  had  been  murdered,  but  nothing  was 
ever  known;  only  his  clothing  was  found  and  his  saddle, 
marked  with  his  name. 

Horace  C was  about  my  most  intimate  friend.     He 

was  the  handsomest  man  in  college,  very  well  read,  and 



our  finest  orator  for  Fourth  of  July  orations  and  poems. 
He  used  to  help  me  out  with  my  compositions,  and  later 
rewrote  an  article  of  mine,  called  "From  Rome  to  Thrasy- 
mene,"  an  illustrated  account  of  a  trip  I  took  in  Italy  in 
1859.  At  the  time  we  were  both  vastly  pleased  with  the 
result  of  his  efforts,  but  I  see  now  that  he  shrouded  my 
facts  with  such  ample  classic  drapery  that  whatever  local 
color  I  had  managed  to  get  hold  of  was  completely  smoth- 

I  lost  sight  of  Horace  for  years.  One  day  I  was  riding 
with  Mr.  Choate  in  Stockbridge  when  a  boy  passed  us  on 
a  bicycle,  and  Mr.  Choate  happened  to  remark  that  it  was 

young  Horace  C ,  who  lived  near  by.     So  I  jumped  off 

my  horse  and  hurried  across  the  road  to  see  my  dear  old 
friend.  When  he  appeared  I  greeted  him  with  effusion 
and  tried  to  talk  about  old  times.  But  he  only  remarked: 
"I  scarcely  remember  those  days,  and  I  take  no  interest  in 
them  whatever."  So  with  a  shake  of  his  limp  hand  I  took 
my  leave. 

William  W.  Hayes,  of  Baltimore,  was  another  handsome 
and  delightful  fellow^  the  best  scholar  in  our  class.  He 
could  read  an  intricate  problem  in  mathematics  only  once 
and  then  go  to  the  blackboard  and  write  it  down  perfectly. 
But  he  didn't  stay  long;  his  mother  thought  he  was  in  too 
fast  a  crowd  at  Trinity  because,  unhickily,  he  sent  her  a 
photograph  of  his  room  with  a  bottle  on  the  table;  so  he 
finished  his  course  at  Kenyon  College,  Ohio.  I  met  hmi 
once  only,  several  years  later,  and  we  had  a  fine  talk  about 
old  times  and  the  Phi  Kappa.  He  told  me  he  still  had 
Phi  Kappa  painted  on  his  trunk. 

Ned  Ferryman,  Sidney  Hull,  and  Alexander  Preston, 
all  from  Perrymansville,  Maryland,  had  been  friends  from 
boyhood  and  came  to  Trinity  together.     Preston  was  a 




man  of  ability  and  became  a  good  lawyer  in  Baltimore;  he 
married  Miss  Carroll  of  Maryland.  When  I  have  been 
in  Baltimore  I  have  usually  gone  to  see  him.  He  kept 
good  trotting-horses  and  took  me  to  drive  in  the  park  and 
to  lunch  with  him  at  the  Maryland  Club — "the  grave  of 
reputations,"  as  a  friend  of  mine  once  called  it  as  we  were 
passing.  The  cooking  there  is  famous  and  one  gets  can- 
vasback  duck,  crab  salad,  and  fried  hominy  in  perfection. 

Then  there  was  "Batt"  Barrow,  from  St.  Francisville, 
Louisiana,  a  fine  fellow  with  a  beautiful  tenor  voice,  who 
never  did  a  stroke  of  work  or  attended  a  recitation  during 
the  time  I  knew  him,  so  that  at  the  end  of  his  junior  year 
he  left  college.  He  was  a  devoted  attendant  on  Miss 
Nellie  Marcy,  daughter  of  General  Marcy,  of  the  United 
States  army;  she  afterward  married  General  George  B. 
McCIellan.  The  last  time  I  saw  her  was  a  few  years  ago 
at  an  evening  party  at  Mrs.  William  Draper's  in  New  York. 
She  was  still  handsome  in  her  old  age  and,  as  always,  very 
charming.  She  was  at  that  moment  carrying  on  an  appar- 
ently flirtatious  conversation  with  Mr.  John  Bigelow,  at 
that  time  about  ninety  years  old.  Ah  well,  she  was  said 
to  be  engaged  to  Batt  Barrow  in  1 856 !  I  don't  know  why 
they  did  not  marry,  because  he  was  all  that  a  woman  might 
admire  in  addition  to  being  very  rich,  but  I  suppose  he 
lost  everything  in  the  Civil  War  and  he  died  shortly  after  it. 

After  Doctor  Goodwin  our  next  president,  or  "Prex," 
as  we  used  to  call  him,  was  Doctor  Samuel  Eliot.  I  loved 
this  man — the  finest  gentleman,  the  best  scholar,  and  the 
best  Christian  that  I  have  ever  known.  He  graduated  at 
the  head  of  his  class  at  Harvard,  and  had  a  peculiarly 
refined  and  charming  personahty.  In  his  classes  he  put 
every  boy  on  his  honor.  We  were  great  friends  from  his 
first  coming  to  Trinity  till  the  day  of  his  death.     I  owe  a 



great  deal  to  him,  to  his  kindly  advice,  his  example  in 
every  way;  no  young  man  ever  had  a  better  friend. 

Professor  Brocklesby  was  our  teacher  in  mathematics 
at  Trinity.  I  became  quite  a  friend  of  his  and  used  to 
draw  for  him  queer  objects,  animalcuke  and  such  things. 
He  was  a  most  unworldly  man  and  easily  embarrassed. 
Although  such  a  learned  mathematician,  he  once  got  so 
balled  up  at  the  grocer's  trying  to  solve  the  problem  of 
seven  pounds  of  sugar  at  seven  cents  a  pound  that  he  had 
to  give  it  up  and  leave  the  result  to  the  grocer.  He  had  a 
humorous  turn  of  mind.  In  those  days  some  of  our  South- 
ern boys  used  to  chew  tobacco  and,  I  am  ashamed  to  say, 
to  spit  on  the  floor.  Professor  Brocklesby  reproved  them 
in  the  memorable  words,  now  the  dryest  of  chestnuts,  but 
original  with  him:  "Those  who  expectorate  on  this  floor 
need  not  expect-to-rate  high  in  this  class." 

Mr.  Belden,  one  of  the  tutors,  was  another  nice  fellow 
who  had  been  at  college  with  my  brother  Harry.  He  was 
always  kind  to  me,  but  on  one  occasion  I  was  particularly 
grateful  to  him.  It  happened  in  this  way:  The  first  two 
years  I  was  at  college  the  bell  rang  at  half  past  five  in  the 
morning  for  recitation  at  six  o'clock;  then  came  chapel  at 
seven,  with  breakfast  right  after  it.  Of  course  in  winter 
it  was  pitch-dark  when  we  started  out  at  six,  and  as  the 
recitation-rooms  were  very  badly  lighted  we  used  to  take 
our  own  lights,  sometimes  a  piece  of  candle  with  or  without 
a  candlestick,  sometimes  a  small  lamp.  Often  in  wmtcr 
the  snow  was  deep,  and  as  the  recitation-room  was  in 
another  building  we  had  to  wade  in  snow  up  to  our  knees. 
There  was  a  boy  in  our  class  named  Sam  Johnson — he 
afterward  married  Mary  Verplanck— I  think  he  was  a 
relation  of  Sir  William  Johnson,  so  celebrated  among  the 
Indians  in   early   colonial  days.     Sam  Johnson  had  been 



captain  in  Everest's  Military  School  and  rather  bossed  our 
class.  He  carried  a  little  swagger-stick,  and  as  he  was  apt 
to  use  it,  he  was  considered  a  trifle  arrogant;  I  liked  him, 
though — he  was  a  good  fellow.  In  class  he  sat  next  to  me 
on  one  of  the  low  pine  benches  without  cushions  that  were 
our  seats.  Sam  had  a  bit  of  candle  which  he  put  on  the 
floor  opposite  us,  and  I  roHed  up  bits  of  paper  and  threw 
them  at  his  candle  until  I  put  it  out.  He  relighted  it  and 
remarked  that  if  I  did  that  again  he  would  slap  my  face, 
whereupon  I  did  it  again.  He  did  not  slap  my  face,  but 
said  he  would  lick  me  after  school;  then  there  being  a  dis- 
turbance Mr.  Belden  caHed  us  to  order.  Johnson  and  his 
friend  Strong  Vincent  went  out  first  and  I  foHowed.  As 
I  reached  the  stone  hafl  outside  I  saw  Johnson  with  his  coat 
ofi"  and  Vincent  standing  by  holding  his  coat  and  books; 
Johnson  squared  off  and  came  at  me.  He  was  twice  my 
size,  but  he  didn't  know  a  thing  about  boxing,  so  he  did 
not  touch  me  in  the  whole  fight,  while  I  got  in  two  or  three 
blows  and  the  blood  poured  down  his  face.  We  closed, 
but  I  got  his  head  "in  chancery,"  and  he  was  quite  helpless 
while  I  rained  blows  on  him.  At  this  delightful  moment 
Mr.  Belden  rushed  out  and  separated  us;  but  I  knew  very 
well  that  he  had  suspected  what  was  going  to  happen  and 
had  wasted  a  Httle  extra  time  arranging  the  books  on  his 
desk.  At  afl  events,  he  did  not  come  out  until  the  fight 
was  practicafly  over.  That  afternoon,  skating  on  the  Hog, 
I  got  lots  of  congratulations  for  having  ficked  Johnson, 
and  felt  just  as  pleased  with  myself  as  if  I  had  not  been 
entirely  in  the  wrong. 




"Pass  we  the  joys  and  sorrows  sailors  find. 
Cooped  in  their  winged  sea-girt  citadel, 
As  breezes  rise  and  fall  and  billows  swell, 
Till  on  some  jocund  morn — lo,  land  and  all  is  well." 

— Byron. 

The  autumn  after  I  graduated  from  Trinity  College  I 
started  for  Cambridge,  intending  to  enter  the  Harvard  Law- 
School,  armed  with  numerous  letters  of  introduction, 
among  them  one  to  Mr.  Longfellow  and  another  to  Doctor 
Theophilus  Parsons,  dean  of  the  law  school,  from  Doctor 
Samuel  Ehot.  On  the  way  I  stopped  at  Hartford  to  see 
my  old  friends,  but  was  taken  ill  there  and  returned  to 
New  York,  where  I  was  laid  up  completely,  and  this  caused 
me  to  change  all  my  plans.  This  illness  had  come  from  a 
sprain,  which  I  got  the  summer  before  when  Jack  and  I 
were  on  our  way  to  New  Hamburg  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mr. 
Phihp  Van  Rensselaer.  I  chanced  to  see  a  snake  in  the 
road,  and  in  jumping  down  from  our  high  box  wagon  to 
kill  it  I  gave  my  leg  a  wrench  which  in  the  end  gave  me  a 
good  deal  of  trouble;  at  last  I  consulted  my  old  friend 
Doctor  George  Elliot— by  this  time  I  was  awfully  lame— 
and  he  said  I  was  run  down  and  advised  a  long  sea-voyage. 

So  we  began  to  look  for  a  sailing-ship  and  finally  chose 
the  bark  Celestia,  a  beautiful  little  clipper-built  craft  of 
three  hundred  tons,  with  a  cargo  of  grain,  bound  for  Sicily 
via  Madeira,  whence  she  was  to  return  with  a  cargo  of 
fruit.     Doctor  Elliot,  a  charming  fellow  familiarly  known 



as  "handsome  George,"  bandaged  me  skilfully  with  what 
he  called  a  "spica  bandage,"  a  contrivance  of  which  he  was 
very  proud,  warranted  not  to  come  off  or  loosen  until  I 
reached  Madeira,  where  I  could  have  it  renewed  by  another 

On  a  gloomy,  cold,  windy  afternoon  in  late  November, 
Gouv,  Jack,  and  I  were  rowed  out  in  a  small  boat  to  the 
Celestiay  which  was  lying  off  the  Battery.  Several  weary 
hours,  which  we  had  previously  spent  waiting  in  a  ship- 
chandler's  office  in  Water  Street,  had  added  to  the  sadness 
of  our  day.  My  brothers  watched  me  climb  up  the  ship's 
side  and  waved  farewells. 

I  found  three  passengers  on  board:  Mr.  James  O.  Put- 
nam, of  Buffalo,  a  distinguished  lawyer,  who  proved  to  be 
a  well-educated  and  agreeable  man;  his  friend,  another 
lawyer,  Mr.  Noxon,  of  Syracuse,  and  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Reynolds,  a  sad,  gloomy,  Presbyterian  minister,  who  was 
very  homesick  and  took  a  pessimistic  view  of  life  in  general. 
He  told  me  several  times  ''that  to  die  to  him  would  be 
gain."  Both  he  and  Mr.  Putnam  were  travelling  for  their 
health;  Mr.  Noxon  was  the  only  well  man  among  us.  This 
did  not  seem  a  very  cheerful  send-off,  but  after  our  sea- 
sickness wore  off — we  were  all  seasick — I  found  the  party 
pleasant  enough.  I  have  forgotten  to  mention  another 
passenger,  more  cheerful  than  the  others,  a  small  black  pig 
from  Africa,  who  was  a  splendid  sailor  and  trotted  briskly 
about  the  deck,  though  how  he  maintained  his  equilibrium 
on  his  slippery  little  hoofs  was  more  than  I  could  under- 
stand. Captain  Howes  was  a  regular  down-east  skipper, 
a  Cape  Codder,  tall,  spare,  and  athletic;  his  trousers  were 
short  and  he  wore  habitually  a  black  frock  coat,  carpet 
slippers,  and  ribbed  woollen  stockings;  but  he  was  a  first- 
class  sailor  and  would  stand  balancing  himself  on  the  deck, 



no  matter  how  rough  it  was,  directing  a  long  Norwegian 
how  to  steer,  ordering  him  to  mind  the  wheel  and  keep 
the  ship  straight:  "Keep  your  weather  eye  lifted,  and 
steer  so  that  you  could  hit  the  eye  of  a  mosquito."  One 
day  he  spied  this  hapless  Nor^vegian,  who  was  very  un- 
handy, far  out  on  a  dipping  yard  trying  to  reef  a  sail  and 
not  having  much  success  at  it.  He  was  leaning  far  over, 
his  person  much  exposed  from  behind,  quite  unaware  that 
the  captain  was  watching  him  with  disapproval.  Suddenly 
the  captain  dropped  his  carpet  slippers,  tore  up  the  rigging 
like  a  cat  and,  without  uttering  a  word  of  warning,  ran  along 
the  yard  and,  by  way  of  a  gentle  reminder,  gave  the  poor 
Norwegian  a  tremendous  kick  a  posteriori  that  nearly 
knocked  him  off  into  the  wildly  running  sea. 

Our  cabin,  only  about  a  dozen  steps  down  from  the 
deck,  was  small  and  square,  with  our  berths  around  it  and 
the  captain's  room  in  the  corner;  in  the  centre  was  the 
dining-table,  above  which  the  skylight  opened  on  to  the 
deck.  The  sash  was  generally  open,  and  when  a  large  wave 
came  over,  which  happened  several  times,  we  were  drenched 
and  the  dinner  well  salted.  The  food  was  plentiful  but 
plain:  huge  joints  of  boiled  mutton,  corned  beef  and  cab- 
bage, etc.  The  captain  presided  at  the  head  of  the  table 
and  carved,  and,  incidentally,  picked  his  teeth  with  the 
carving-fork.  My  berth  was  directly  at  the  bottom  of 
the  companionway,  and  at  the  foot  of  my  bed  stood  a 
barrel  filled  with  most  delicious  red-cheeked  apples.  I 
remember  one  day,  as  I  crept  up  on  deck  feeling  pretty 
sick,  I  met  Mr.  Putnam  holding  one  of  these  apples  in  his 
hand  (he  was  homesick  as  well  as  seasick),  pensively  regard- 
ing it  with  a  longing  look  and  murmuring:  "I  wish  I  were 
now  where  you  grew  !"  It  mattered  not  to  him  where  that 
land  might  be  so  long  as  it  was  dry. 



It  blew  a  gale  all  the  way  across  the  ocean  directly  in 
our  favor,  and  although  we  only  had  a  few  of  the  sails  up, 
we  ran  very  fast.  The  waves  were  mountain-high,  and  our 
little  ship  tossed  about  like  a  cork,  first  trembHng  on  the 
top  of  a  great  wave  and  then  dashing  down  into  a  vast 
abyss,  where  for  a  moment  nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  the 
huge  green  walls  of  water  around  us.  For  several  days 
we  made  nearly  three  hundred  miles  a  day,  and  came  in 
sight  of  Madeira  in  eighteen  days.  As  there  is  only  an 
open  roadstead  at  Madeira  and  no  real  harbor,  we  could 
not  come  to  anchor;  so  for  nearly  five  days  and  nights  we 
beat  back  and  forth;  again  and  again  we  would  approach 
the  shore  so  that  we  could  almost  talk  to  the  inhabitants, 
and  then  run  out  of  sight  of  land.  In  one  of  these  trips  we 
saw  a  large  brig  dashed  to  pieces  on  the  rocks,  and  saw  the 
people  on  board  cast  ashore  and  struggling  up  the  cliffs. 

At  last  there  came  a  delightful  calm,  and  we  landed  at 
evening  in  a  haven  of  peace  and  beauty.  Never  did  food 
taste  so  good  as  at  the  excellent  hotel  to  which  we  went. 
The  first  thing  next  morning  we  found  our  way  into  a 
lovely  garden  adjoining  the  hotel,  whose  charming  walks, 
laid  in  colored  flints  in  patterns,  were  strewn  with  oranges 
and  pomegranates,  scattered  by  the  late  storm.  There  for 
the  first  time  I  saw  banana-trees  laden  with  fruit  and 
tasted  the  dehcious  custard-apple.  Madeira  seemed  to  me 
then  the  loveliest  spot  on  earth.  Partly  because  it  was  the 
first  foreign  place  that  I  had  seen,  I  was  afraid  when  I  was 
about  to  visit  it  again  forty  years  later  that,  after  seeing 
so  many  other  famous  places,  I  might  be  disappointed,  but 
I  found  it  little  changed  and  as  dehghtful  as  ever.  No 
wheeled  vehicles  are  used  there,  only  little  sledges  drawn 
by  diminutive  oxen,  but  they  have  delightful  saddle- 
horses,  and  I  explored  the  Alpine-Iike  tropical  mountain 

1 06 


passes,  with  a  "burroquiro,"  brandishing  a  horsehair  fly- 
brush,  who  clung  to  my  horse's  tail,  keeping  up,  no  matter 
how  fast  I  rode,  and  was  ready  to  hold  my  stirrup  when  I 
dismounted.  Everywhere  were  flowers;  even  the  smallest 
garden  was  filled  with  color;  the  beautiful  bougainvilica 
over  all,  heliotropes  and  geraniums  traihng  on  every  wall, 
and  all  our  greenhouse  plants  growing  wild.  Altogether 
it  is  an  enchanting  place  with  a  most  delightful  climate, 
without  any  frost  or  dew,  and  with  an  even  winter  temper- 
ature night  and  day  of  about  70°. 

We  were  royally  entertained  by  the  hospitable  residents, 
and  as  visitors  were  then  rather  rare  and  I  brought  excel- 
lent letters  to  Messrs.  Newton,  Gordon  and  Cossart,  the 
great  wine-merchants,  we  were  invited  to  dine  by  Mr. 
Cossart.  Mr.  Marsh,  who  had  been  American  consul  for 
many  years,  was  absent,  but  his  vice-consul  entertained 
us  in  his  lovely  house,  the  porch  of  which  was  overhung 
by  poinsettias  in  full  bloom.  At  these  dinners  we  learned 
what  real  Madeira  wine  was;  it  is  not  known  there  simply 
as  "Madeira,"  but  by  specific  names  such  as  "Sercial," 
"Bual,"  "Malmsey,"  etc.,  and  great  vintages  are  desig- 
nated by  their  special  years.  When  I  rode  through  the 
country  the  burroquiro  knew  where  to  stop  and  rest,  and 
wherever  that  might  be  a  man  always  came  out  filling  a 
brimming  glass  from  a  pitcher  of  beautiful  amber  wine,  a 
few  milreis  satisfying  him  in  return. 

After  a  delightful  visit  in  Madeira,  our  vessel  having 
discharged  her  cargo  and  being  well  supplied  with  quan- 
tities of  delicious  fruit  and  great  bunches  of  bananas  hang- 
ing in  the  rigging,  we  sailed  away  one  evening  over  a  calm 
sea  for  our  next  stopping-place,  Gibraltar.  The  first  night 
out,  about  three  o'clock,  when  I  was  fast  asleep  in  my 
berth,  I  was  awakened  by  loud  and  prolonged  shouting  by 



some  one  in  mortal  terror.  It  was  the  mate  at  the  wheel, 
caHfng  to  the  captain.  I  heard  the  captain  leap  out  of  his 
berth  and  rush  on  deck,  then  came  more  excited  shouting, 
and  then  a  deafening  crash,  as  if  a  train  of  cars  going  at 
full  speed  had  run  off  the  track  and  were  jolting  over  the 
ties.  It  was  but  a  step  from  my  berth  to  the  deck.  The 
dawn  was  only  just  breaking,  but  I  could  see  that  every- 
thing was  crashing  down.  The  masts  and  rigging  of  our 
ship  were  being  flung  about,  and  all  tangled  up  with  our 
rigging  were  the  spars  of  a  gigantic  steamer,  towering  aloft 
and  looking  as  if  she  were  right  on  top  of  us.  It  proved  to 
be  the  Great  Britain,  the  largest  steamer,  I  believe,  then 
afloat.  (Her  launching  some  years  before  had  been  a 
great  event;  she  was  fuH-rigged  like  a  sailing-ship,  but  had 
all  the  appliances  of  a  steamer  as  wefl.)  It  appeared  that 
the  steersman  on  the  steamer  had  been  asleep,  and  waked 
just  before  the  ships  came  together.  Our  captain,  with 
great  presence  of  mind,  cafled  out  to  him  to  put  his  wheel 
hard  up,  at  the  same  moment  putting  our  wheel  hard  down, 
with  the  result  that  the  steamer  went  slightly  to  the  right 
and  our  vessel  to  the  left,  so  that  she  struck  us  in  the  bow 
instead  of  right  in  the  middle,  where  she  would  have  cut 
us  in  two  and  sunk  us  at  once. 

So  here  we  were,  all  lying  perfectly  still  on  a  calm,  misty 
sea,  fastened  together !  In  a  moment  the  big  ship's  boats 
were  out  and  I  could  see  them  in  the  dim  gray  morning  light, 
manned  with  crews  resting  on  their  oars,  for  they  thought 
that  we  were  about  to  sink  and  were  coming  to  pick  us  up. 
Already  they  were  calling  to  us  that  they  were  bound  for 
Melbourne  and  were  ready  to  carry  us  there.  (When  I  first 
ran  on  deck,  when  everything  was  crashing  about  us  and  we 
thought  we  were  going  down,  the  only  man  who  showed  any 
fear  was  the  Reverend  Mr.  Reynolds,  who  seemed  not  at 

1 08 


all  desirous  of  embracing  this  opportunity  of  gratifying  his 
pious  wish,  so  often  expressed,  that  "to  die  would  Ix-  to 
him  gain."  He  was  apparently  scared  bhie.)  There  we  lay 
until  daylight,  when  the  condition  of  the  two  sliips  could 
be  plainly  seen.  The  steamer  was  but  httle  damaged,  but 
we  were  in  such  a  state  that  she  waited  by  us  nearly  all 
day,  until  it  was  found  that  although  dreadfully  crippled 
our  ship  was  not  injured  below  the  water-line,  and  seemed 
to  be  still  seaworthy,  and  would  not  sink.  The  steamer 
had  struck  us  about  twenty  feet  back  of  the  bow;  so  our 
figure-head  and  the  whole  of  the  bow  and  the  bowsprit 
carrying  the  jibs  were  gone,  the  foremast  was  cut  off  close 
to  the  deck,  the  mainmast  almost  entirely  carried  away, 
leaving  only  a  stump  large  enough  to  support  the  mainsail, 
and  the  top  of  the  mizzenmast  with  its  topsail  was  gone. 
The  men  set  to  work  with  axes  and  chopped  everything 
free,  so  that  by  evening  little  but  our  hull  remained.  When 
all  this  loose  stuff  had  drifted  away  we  found  we  had  but 
two  sails,  the  mainsail  and  the  slooplike  sail  on  the  miz- 
zenmast, and  only  a  part  of  the  hull,  as  in  addition  to  the 
loss  of  the  entire  bow  a  great  piece  twenty  feet  long  had 
been  torn  off  one  side  of  the  stern.  When  the  debris  had 
been  cleared  away,  the  captain  of  the  steamer  came  on 
board  and  urged  us  to  go  to  Melbourne  with  him,  but  we 
declined,  and  feeling  satisfied  that  we  could  take  care  of 
ourselves,  he  sailed  away  and  left  us  to  our  fate. 

Later  on  the  same  day  we  sighted  a  fishing-smack  that 
came  alongside,  and  after  some  talk  with  its  captain  Mr. 
Putnam  arranged  with  him  to  take  him  back  to  Madeira, 
so  he  clambered  down  into  the  little  boat  accompanied  by 
his  baggage,  and  that  was  the  last  we  ever  saw  of  him, 
but  we  learned  later  that  he  reached  ALadeira  safcl> .  lie 
begged  us  to  accompany  him,  but  we  preferred  to  stick  to 



our  ship.  On  the  second  day  our  captain  made  up  his 
mind  that  his  best  course  was  to  sail  straight  for  Gibraltar, 
about  seven  hundred  miles  distant,  and  asked  us  what  we 
wanted  to  do.  We  told  him  that  we  would  trust  the  whole 
matter  to  him  and  believed  that  he  could  bring  us  safely 
into  port.  The  sea  was  perfectly  calm,  with  a  gentle  fair 
wind  following  astern,  and  after  only  seven  delightful  days 
we  were  safely  at  anchor  in  the  splendid  harbor  of  Gibral- 
tar, where  the  advent  of  our  strange-looking  craft  caused 
some  amusement. 

Gibraltar  was  then,  as  now,  a  most  cosmopolitan  place, 
the  harbor  crowded  with  wonderful  ships  from  all  four 
quarters  of  the  globe,  and  the  streets  gay  with  Arabs  in 
coats  of  many  colors.  I  found  the  deck  of  the  Celestia 
was  a  fine  place  from  which  to  make  sketches,  and  I  enjoyed 
the  two  weeks  we  spent  hving  on  the  ship  and  visiting  the 
sights  of  the  town,  before  we  could  find  another  bark 
bound  for  Messina,  our  original  destination.  She  was  a 
nice  little  vessel  of  three  hundred  tons,  named  the  Emblem, 
commanded  by  another  down-east  skipper.  Captain  Davis, 
who  proved  to  be  a  jolly  man,  witty  and  hospitable,  like 
many  of  these  old-fashioned  New  England  sailors.  Like 
the  Celestia,  the  Emblem  was  bound  for  Sicily  for  a  load  of 
lemons  and  oranges. 

We  were  about  a  week  going  to  Messina,  for  it  blew  a 
gale  all  the  way  and  was  awfully  rough.  We  were  at  sea 
on  Christmas  Day.  Among  the  few  books  I  had  brought 
with  me  was  a  volume  of  Longfellow's  poems  just  pub- 
lished, and  I  read  for  the  first  time  "My  Lost  Youth": 
"The  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts."  I  also 
had  a  copy  of  Murray's  guide-book  for  South  Italy, 
and  Mr.  Noxon  used  to  read  parts  of  it  aloud.  In  the 
accounts  of  the  galleries  he  always  pronounced  sarcoph- 



agus  with  the  accent  on  pha,  which  sounded  so  odd  that 
I  have  always  remembered  it;  indeed,  it  is  almost  the  only 

thing  that  I  recall  about  him.     He  and  Mr.  R remained 

on  the  ship  at  Messina  while  she  was  waiting  for  her  return 
cargo  and  went  back  to  New  York  in  her.  I  stayed  at 
the  Hotel  Trinacria,  a  fine  hotel  in  an  old  palace,  well 
kept  but  guiltless  of  a  bathroom,  like  most  of  the  Italian 
hotels  of  that  day.  I  visited  it  again  with  my  daughter 
in  1907  and  took  tea  there,  and  found  it  still  delightful, 
but  when  I  passed  the  site  after  the  earthquake  in  1908 
not  a  vestige  of  it  remained. 

At  Messina  on  this  first  visit  I  had  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion to  Mr.  Sanderson,  a  member  of  the  great  house  of 
Ingham  and  Company,  the  wine-merchants;  he  was  an 
accomplished  man,  who  painted,  and  played  the  violin,  and 
spoke  four  or  five  languages.  He  was  extremely  polite  and 
took  me  out  to  his  villa  in  the  country,  where  after  dining 
with  his  beautiful  Italian  wife  he  showed  me  his  charming 
gardens  and  his  groves  of  oranges  and  lemons.  Mr. 
Ingham,  the  head  of  the  house,  married  the  Duchess  of 
Santa  Rosalia,  a  member  of  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
families  in  Italy,  with  splendid  palaces  in  Palermo.  I  heard 
that  when  he  introduced  any  one  to  her  he  said:  "Allow 
me  to  present  you  to  the  Duchess  of  Santa  Rosalia,  Mrs. 
Ingham,  my  wife."  The  duchess  could  neither  read  nor 
write,  for  like  many  of  the  great  Italian  nobles  in  that  day, 
she  had  no  education  whatever. 

While  I  was  at  Messina  I  drove  out  in  a  cab  to  Scylla 
and  Charybdis,  which  seemed  not  at  all  a  dangerous  spot, 
hardly  more  than  a  little  ripple— perhaps  it  has  gone  oil 
since  classic  times.  The  beggars  there  were  peculiarly 
offensive.  It  is  at  least  a  two-mile  drive  from  there  to 
Messina,  but  one  husky  beggar,  who  was  deaf  and  dumb 



and  could  only  emit  inarticulate  noises,  followed  grunting 
behind  my  cab  all  the  way,  and  in  the  end  had  to  be 
rewarded  with  a  tip. 

I  went  to  Naples  by  steamer  at  night,  lighted  on  my 
way  by  an  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius.  The  lava  was 
pouring  out  from  the  side  of  the  mountain,  but  it  was  still 
possible  to  reach  the  crater,  and  I  determined  to  go  up, 
though  I  was  still  lame  from  my  illness  and  could  not  walk; 
so  I  hired  two  bearers,  who  carried  me  in  a  chair  up  the 
face  of  the  cone,  over  the  masses  of  recently  discharged 
lava.  Standing  on  the  top,  we  were  able  to  look  down 
into  the  crater.  It  was  a  wild  scene — "hell  with  the  lid 
taken  off" — tremendous  clouds  of  smoke  circling  around, 
but  no  fire  or  lava.  The  lava-stream  from  the  side,  how- 
ever, was  flowing  down  into  the  plain,  overwhelming  houses 
and  vineyards  in  its  way.  My  bearers  then  took  me  one 
on  each  side  and  rushed  me  down  the  cone  knee-deep  in 
ashes,  an  almost  perpendicular  descent,  until  we  reached 
the  Hermitage,  where  we  had  lunch  and  **Iacrima  Cristi" 
wine,  which  is  grown  on  the  slope  of  the  mountain.  By 
that  time  it  was  growing  dark  and  on  our  way  down  we 
passed  near  an  expanse  of  lava,  cool  enough  to  walk  over, 
but  the  subterranean  fire  here  and  there  glowed  through 
it  and  one  seemed  to  be  walking  on  a  lake  of  fire.  We 
amused  ourselves  by  twisting  out  bits  of  the  still-burning 
lava  with  sticks  and  pressing  coins  into  them,  some  cop- 
per, some  silver.  In  coming  down  the  driver  overturned 
the  cab  and  I  was  thrown  out,  scattering  my  coins  as  I 
fell,  and,  strange  to  say,  when  the  man  picked  them  up  he 
found  only  the  copper  and  none  of  the  silver  ones ! 

If  I  were  to  describe  the  rest  of  my  travels  in  1859  it 
would  sound  like  a  page  of  Baedeker,  for  I  saw  all  the 
usual  sights.     Like  most  young  people,  I  kept  a  desultory 



diary,  and  I  find  there  an  occasional  note  that  may  be  of 
some  slight  interest  to-day.  In  Naples  on  Sunday  the 
church  service  was  held  in  a  room  at  the  British  Legation, 
and  you  had  to  pay  three  carhni  before  going  in,  buying 
your  seat  just  as  you  would  at  the  theatre.  "The  preaching 
was  the  worst  I  ever  heard  and  the  sermons  were  always 
about  burnt  sacrifices."  After  fifty  years  we  still  some- 
times suffer  from  that  kind  of  sermon. 

The  carnival  was  fine  in  Florence  that  year  and  some  of 
the  turnouts  were  magnificent — four  horses,  with  postil- 
ions and  outriders  and  everything  in  style.  The  ladies, 
then  as  now,  threw  smiles  and  bouquets  right  and  left,  but 
unluckily  none  of  them  fell  on  me.  I  remember  being 
shocked  by  the  shortness  of  the  ladies'  dresses !  One  im- 
mense van  was  filled  with  men  wearing  lion  masks  over 
their  faces  and  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  the  English  fashion, 
loud  checks,  tiny  straw  hats  with  half-inch  brims,  and  eye- 
glasses, all  of  them  engaged  in  attentively  reading  Mur- 
ray's guide-books.  This  took  immensely,  as  jokes  on  the 
English  were  popular  in  Italy  at  that  time. 

I  went  by  diligence  from  Florence  to  Bologna.  At  Bo 
logna,  when  I  went  to  some  church  or  other  to  see  some  pic- 
tures by  Guido — I  seem  to  have  had  a  terrible  liking  for 
Guido  when  I  was  twenty-three! — I  saw  before  the  altar  a 
splendid  coffin  containing  the  remains  of  the  Princess  Pepoli, 
sister  to  Murat,  who  had  died  a  few  days  before  and  was 
lying  there  in  state.  Though  I  don't  like  Guido  nowadays, 
some  of  my  admirations  have  remained  unchanged;  I  am 
pleased  to  find  that  my  diary  describes  the  statue  of 
Coleoni  in  Venice  as  '*the  finest  equestrian  statue  I  have 
ever  seen."  I  added  that  he  "was  the  first  to  use  firearms 
in  warfare."  Is  this  true,  I  wonder?  It  was  in  \'enicc 
that  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Taglioni  at  the  post-office. 



My  stay  in  Rome  I  shall  leave  for  another  chapter,  and 
only  one  incident  in  Paris  stands  out  clearly.  I  saw  the 
Emperor  Louis  Napoleon  and  Eugenie  driving  in  a  car- 
riage, on  the  way  to  his  great  victories  of  Solferino  and 
Magenta.  He  was  just  at  the  height  of  his  glory.  They 
passed  close  to  where  I  stood;  I  saw  that  the  empress  had 
been  crying. 

In  London  I  spent  days  and  days  at  the  National  Gal- 
lery, looking  up  pictures  I  had  known  only  in  engravings. 
My  diary  indicates  that  I  was  irritated  at  finding  the 
Turners  hung  next  to  the  Claudes.  "They  stand  no  com- 
parison with  Claude  Lorraine,  notwithstanding  Mr.  Ruskin, 
and  are  so  imaginative  that  one  cannot  tell  what  they  are 
about."  What  would  I  have  thought  of  the  "Futurists" 
and  "Vorticists"  of  to-day!  At  the  Vernon  Gallery  I 
liked  the  Hogarths,  naturally  enough,  and  also  the  Land- 
seers,  but  I  hope  it  was  as  dogs  and  not  as  pictures  that  I 
admired  the  latter. 

At  the  Zoo  I  saw  the  two  hippopotami  presented  to 
Queen  Victoria  by  the  Viceroy  of  Egypt,  and  a  "lovely  col- 
lection of  serpents."  I  went  to  hear  Spurgeon  hold  forth 
to  seven  thousand  people  at  the  Surrey  Music  Hall,  but 
thought  him  an  unctuous  oily  "Chadband"  kind  of  a  fel- 
low and  wondered  in  what  his  power  lay,  though  he  had  a 
strong  pair  of  lungs  and  the  gift  of  the  gab.  I  thought 
Charles  Kean  in  "Henry  V"  better  worth  seeing.  And  I 
was  thrilled  by  the  horses  and  turnouts  in  Hyde  Park;  it 
was  the  height  of  the  season  and  one  day  I  saw  thirteen 
four-horse  drags  collected  there,  driven  by  various  well- 
known  men — a  club  on  the  way  to  Greenwich  to  eat  a 
whitebait  dinner — and  I  was  surprised  that  these  scions  of 
the  nobility  looked,  in  their  cutaway  coats  and  brass  but- 
tons, for  all  the  world  like  coachmen. 



My  greatest  day  in  London  and  one  of  the  best-remem- 
bered of  my  whole  life  was  Derby  Day.  I  shall  describe  it 
rather  fully,  for  some  of  the  details  may  have  changed  in 
fifty  years.  It  was  the  second  day  of  the  Epsom  meeting 
and  was  more  than  usually  crowded.  I  had  a  splendid 
seat  in  the  grand  stand,  overlooking  the  whole  field.  An 
American  lady  happened  to  be  sitting  next  to  me,  and  I 
remember  hearing  her  ask  an  English  lady  whether  the 
horses  ever  trotted,  having  our  American  trotting-matches 
in  mind,  and  I  was  amused  at  the  English  lady's  answer: 
**No,  they  gallop  just  as  fast  as  they  can."  The  course 
was  of  turf,  about  two  miles  and  a  half  long,  and  it  was 
cleared  by  a  hundred  policemen  in  an  incredibly  short 
space  of  time,  though  it  was  covered  with  people,  and, 
w^hat  w^as  more,  it  was  kept  clear.  The  horses  first  walked 
past  the  grand  stand  and  then  ran  back  and  took  their 
places  at  the  starting-point;  people  did  not  seem  to  take 
much  interest  in  the  starting.  In  front  of  the  grand  stand 
was  the  betting-ring  and  I  saw  a  man  there  who  had  staked 
twelve  thousand  pounds.  In  the  first  race,  half  a  mile, 
there  w^ere  eleven  horses  started  and  it  was  won  by 
Orchehill  ridden  by  Fordham.  The  second  race,  about 
two  miles,  was  the  "great  event,"  in  which  thirty-three 
horses  were  entered  and  thirty  ran;  it  was  won  by  Musjid, 
ow^ned  by  Sir  Joseph  Hawley  and  ridden  by  Wells.  I 
never  saw  anything  equal  to  the  excitement  as  the  thirty 
horses  rushed  by.  Musjid  only  won  by  a  short  distance 
and  there  were  a  dozen  close  behind.  Another  race  was 
run  by  three  horses  and  won  by  Fisherman,  ridden  also 
by  Wells;  it  must  have  been  a  great  feather  in  his  cap  to 
have  won  two  races  on  the  same  day.  This  was  the  most 
beautiful  race  I  ever  saw,  the  horses  running  neck  and 



But,  on  the  whole,  the  horses  were  not  quite  as  fine  as 
I  had  expected  them  to  be,  and  I  thought  that  they  would 
have  made  a  poor  show  in  one  of  our  four-mile  races  at 
home.  I  picked  out  the  winning  horse  in  three  out  of  the 
four  races  that  I  saw,  and  might  have  won  my  fortune  had 
I  bet. 

The  racing  was  splendid,  but  I  enjoyed  the  excitement 
of  the  motley  crowd  even  more;  lots  of  ginger-beer  stalls, 
boxing-matches,  running-matches,  nigger  minstrels  and 
thimbleriggers.  West  End  swells  and  East  End  paupers, 
all  gathered  together.  Every  available  means  of  trans- 
portation was  forced  into  service — horses  that  had  evidently 
never  been  in  harness  before  and  others  that  seemed  likely 
never  to  be  there  again.  The  city  was  deserted  and  all 
the  world  at  Epsom.  In  the  evening  I  went  to  the  cele- 
brated cider- cellars,  where  law  cases  were  tried,  and  heard 
the  Sickles  case  very  well  argued.  To  my  mind,  if  ever  a 
murderer  deserved  to  be  hung  it  was  Sickles. 

I  was  young  enough  to  envy  the  Eton  boys  playing 
cricket  out  on  the  meadows  and  rowing  on  the  river.  Their 
race-boats  were  splendid,  finer  than  anything  we  had  in 
America  then,  some  of  them  with  ten  oars,  and  the  rowing 
the  finest  I  had  ever  seen,  although  we  thought  we  rowed 
well  at  home.  I  walked  some  distance  out  into  the  coun- 
try and  met  some  boys  bird's-nesting,  others  fishing  and 
shooting,  and  all  having  such  a  nice  time  that  no  wonder 
I  wrote  in  my  diary:  ''  It  seems  worth  while  to  go  to  a  school 
like  that." 

I  shall  not  dwell  on  my  trip  to  Ireland  or  my  stay  in 
the  Engfish  lake  country,  for  I  want  to  tell  you  about  my 
most  delightful  visit  at  Mr.  David  Maitland's  place  in  Scot- 
land. I  have  spoken  before  of  my  godfather,  Mr.  Maitland, 
a  devoted  friend  of  my  father  and  mother.     After  making 



a  fortune  in  America  he  returned  to  Scotland  and  bought 
back  the  old  family  place,  Barcaple,  in  Kirkcudbrightshire, 
that  had  gone  out  of  the  family.  His  brother  Joseph  went 
to  Australia  and,  I  beheve,  made  a  huge  fortune  there  in 

I  went  by  the  coach  to  Castle  Douglas  and  found  Mr. 
Maitland  waiting  there  for  me  when  I  got  down;  although 
we  had  not  met  for  several  years  we  recognized  each  other 
at  once.  He  had  not  changed  very  much,  his  cheeks  were 
still  flushed  with  health,  and  he  had  the  elastic  step  of  a 
young  man,  as  he  was  accustomed  to  shooting  and  fishing 
and  could  walk  his  ten  miles  as  well  as  ever.  As  always, 
he  was  very  well  dressed  and  the  picture  of  neatness,  wear- 
ing a  gray  morning  suit  and  gaiters,  and  was  addicted  to 
the  very  same  enormous  standing  collars  that  I  remem- 
bered, with  a  check  cravat  tied  in  a  bow. 

Barcaple  had  been  a  wild  half-moorland  farm,  about  a 
thousand  acres,  which  Mr.  Maitland  had  drained  and  put 
in  beautiful  order;  the  house  itself  was  of  stone,  surrounded 
by  lovely  lawns,  shrubbery,  and  trees.  In  the  charming 
garden  were  thousands  of  rhododendrons  and  all  the  new 
shrubs  and  trees  lately  introduced  from  China,  and  at  one 
time  there  were  Cherokee  roses  from  South  Canjh'na, 
though  he  said  he  had  never  been  able  to  grow  them  in 
New  York. 

The  first  thing  I  saw  when  I  went  into  the  parlor  was 
my  father's  miniature  and  a  Httle  drawing  of  Danskammer 
by  Wheatfield.  I  wonder  if  the  latter  is  still  in  existence. 
(Not  long  before  his  death  Mr.  Maitland  sent  me  the 
miniature,  and  two  large  silver  pitchers  that  my  mother 
had  given  him;  they  have  stood  on  my  sideboard  ever 

Mr.  Maitland's  dinners  were  as  good  as  th6y  had  always 



been  in  New  York,  and  every  evening  after  family  prayers, 
which  were  attended  by  all  the  servants,  the  butler  would 
bring  in  a  silver  tray,  with  Scotch  whiskey,  sugar,  and  lem- 
ons for  a  "night-cap."  I  was  interested  in  seeing  in  the 
stables  the  chestnut  mare,  Jessie  jMorland,  now  very  old, 
sired  by  Sir  Henry  and  raised  by  my  father  at  Danskam- 
mer,  which  Mr.  Maitland  had  taken  to  Scotland.  He  told 
me  that  he  had  had  more  than  a  dozen  fine  colts  from  her, 
some  of  which  had  been  on  the  turf,  and  that  he  kept  her 
as  a  memento  of  some  of  the  happiest  days  of  his  life. 

His  game-preserve  was  magnificent,  a  great  moor,  pur- 
ple with  heather,  through  which  ran  the  River  Dee.  As 
one  walked  about  grouse  would  rise  under  one's  feet.  In 
the  month  of  June  when  I  was  there  quantities  of  pheasants 
were  setting  under  the  shrubbery  in  the  lawns  and  gardens, 
so  tame  that  Air.  Alaitland  could  lift  them  up  while  they 
were  on  their  nests  and  examine  the  eggs.  Scattered  over 
the  moor  we  saw  the  graves  of  the  old  Covenanters,  whose 
names  were  preserved  by  "Old  Mortality's"  faithful  chisel. 

"Gray,  recumbent  tombs  of  the  dead  in  desert  places; 
Standing  stones  on  the  vacant  wine-red  moor, 
Hills  of  sheep  and  homes  of  the  silent  vanished  races 
And  winds  austere  and  pure." 

The  scene  of  "Guy  Mannering,"  also,  was  laid  near 
Barcaple,  in  the  ocean  caves.  I  saw  Campbell's  beech- 
tree — "Woodman,  spare  that  tree" — still  standing  in  the 
garden  of  one  of  Mr.  Maitland's  friends,  Mr.  "Watty" 
McCuIIough,  and  another  day  we  went  to  Lord  Selkirk's 
place,  St.  Mary's  Isle,  and  took  afternoon  tea  with  the 
family.  They  showed  us  the  silver  on  the  table,  which 
was  the  same  tea-set  that  John  Paul  Jones  had  stolen  on 
one  of  his  raids;  his  father  had  been  a  gardener  on  the 



Selkirks'  place.  Lady  Selkirk  said  that  the  tea-leaves  were 
still  in  the  teapot  when  he  returned  it,  as  it  had  been 
picked  up  from  the  table  when  they  were  at  tea.  (Perhaps 
I  ought  not  to  speak  of  it  as  stealing,  for  he  did  return  it !) 

On  Sunday  we  went  to  the  Established  Church.  The 
kirk  had  a  two-story  pulpit,  in  the  upper  part  of  which  the 
minister  held  forth,  while  in  the  lower  the  precentor  was 
stationed  with  a  tuning-fork  and  set  the  tunes  for  the 
hymns  and  psalms.  They  had  a  canny  arrangement  for 
saving  time.  After  the  morning  service  and  sermon  were 
over,  we  had  a  recess  and  went  out  into  the  graveyard  to 
eat  our  lunches,  which  we  had  brought  with  us;  then  we 
went  back  into  the  church  and  had  another  service  and 
sermon,  in  this  way  saving  a  long  drive.  But  it  was  a 
pretty  wearisome  performance. 

One  Sunday  morning  in  Scotland  I  was  sketching,  sit- 
ting out  in  a  field  by  myself  some  distance  from  the  high- 
way, when  a  party  of  men  on  their  way  to  church  happened 
to  pass  along  the  road.  They  stopped  and  watched  me  for 
some  time;  then  an  oldish  man  climbed  laboriously  over 
the  fence  and,  crossing  the  field  to  me,  said:  "Young  man, 
do  you  know  that  you  are  breaking  the  Sabbath?"  I  said: 
''What  business  is  it  of  yours?"  He  said:  "It's  my  busi- 
ness to  warn  you  of  the  error  of  your  ways."  I  answered 
ungratefully  that  he  would  probably  celebrate  the  Sabbath 
by  getting  drunk,  and  after  looking  at  me  a  moment  in 
sour  silence  he  went  back  to  his  friends. 

Mr.  Maitland  took  me  to  Caley,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  places  in  ScotLind,  belonging  to  Murray  Stewart, 
but  I  enjoyed  most  of  all  my  visits  to  Stewart  Maitland, 
my  godfather's  nephew,  who  lived  near  by.  Mrs.  Stewart 
Maitland  was  an  American,  a  Miss  Lynch  from  New  ^'ork, 
daughter  of  Dominick  Lynch,  and  an  intimate  friend  of 



my  mother,  who  was  godmother  to  one  of  the  girls.  Their 
house  was  modern,  but  there  was  an  old  ruin  on  the  place, 
Compstone  Castle,  after  which  it  was  named.  They  were 
all  so  hospitable  that  I  spent  day  after  day  at  their  house 
with  their  large  family  of  children,  and  had  the  time  of  my 
life.  We  went  on  delightful  picnics,  often  to  bathe  in  the 
sea  at  a  place  called  Burn-foot.  I  remember  I  carried  little 
David  into  the  sea  in  my  arms.  He  was  a  baby  then,  but 
afterward  he  was  head  of  the  family,  and  now,  if  he  is  still 
living,  he  must  be  a  gray-haired  man  and,  alas !  all  those 
other  dear  people  have  long  been  in  their  graves.  But  it 
was  a  happy  time  to  remember  and  it  warms  my  old  heart 
to  recall  it. 

It  was  not  the  shooting-season,  but  we  had  splendid 
walks  over  the  moor,  the  heather  elastic  under  one's  foot. 
There  was  fme  salmon-fishing  in  the  Dee,  but  it  was  not 
the  season  for  that  either,  for  the  dry  weather  had  sent  all 
the  salmon  to  the  sea;  however,  there  were  certain  things 
that  could  be  killed  out  of  season  and  Mr.  Maitland  had  a 
gamekeeper  who  kept  ferrets.  So  he  gave  me  a  gun  and 
I  used  to  walk  all  over  the  place  with  the  gamekeeper. 
He  would  put  one  of  the  ferrets  into  a  rabbit-burrow  and 
presently  a  rabbit  would  come  kiting  out  and  I  would 
shoot  it — ferrets  are  trained  not  to  attack  and  eat  the  rab- 
bits, but  only  to  drive  them  out  of  their  holes.  In  a  strip 
of  marshy  ground  we  killed  several  ducks  and  in  an  orchard 
grown  up  with  fern  a  great  hare  started  up.  I  remember 
how  long  his  legs  looked  as  I  shot  him;  he  was  an  enormous 
one,  the  first  I  had  ever  seen.  We  took  him  home  and 
the  next  day  he  was  served  up  in  hare  soup. 

Dundrennon  Abbey,  a  magnificent  old  ruin,  belongs  to 
the  Alaitlands,  and  there  all  of  the  family  are  buried.  My 
godfather  showed  me  the  spot  where  he  was  to  be  buried, 



and  doubtless  he  now  lies  there— that  line  old  man  with  his 
leonine  head,  snow-white  hair,  and  ruddy  face.  Dundren- 
non  was  the  last  house  where  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  stayed 
on  that  sad  journey  to  England  whence  she  never  returned. 

While  I  was  at  Mr.  Maitland's  I  went  to  Kirtleton, 
my  grandfather's  old  country  place  in  Dumfriesshire.  You 
will  remember  that  Colonel  Armstrong  was  a  Scotchman. 
He  was  a  direct  descendant  of  the  much-sung  Border  chief- 
tain Johnnie  Armstrong,  executed  by  James  V  of  Scotland 
when  he  undertook  to  pacify  the  realm.  It  was  not  alto- 
gether surprising  that  he  should  have  begun  with  my  ances- 
tors— the  old  chronicle  says:  "The  Armestrongges  of  Lid- 
dersdaill  had  repoorted  presumptuously  that  thay  woodc 
not  be  ordoured,  naither  by  the  king  of  Scottes  thair  sov- 
eraine  lorde  nor  by  the  king  of  England,  but  after  suche 
maner  as  thaire  faders  had  used  afore  thayme."  More- 
over, **the  said  Armestrongges  had  avaunted  thaymselves 
to  be  the  destruction  of  twoe  and  fifty  parisshe  churches 
in  Scotteland,  beside  the  unlawful  and  ungracious  attemp- 
tates  by  thaym  committed  withynne  Einglande." 

So  Johnnie  and  all  his  men  were  captured — although  he 
was  "als  guid  ane  chiftaine  as  evir  was  upoun  the  borderis 
and  sustained  the  number  of  XXIIII  weill-horsed  gentilmen 
with  him" — and  safely  hanged  on  growing  trees  on  the 
little  sandy  plateau  at  Caerlanrig,  where  no  trees  grow 
to-day — the  ballads  say  that  it  was  because  of  the  un- 
just sentence  that  the  trees  withered  away.  Johnnie's  old 
ruined  tower  of  Gilnockie  still  stands  on  the  Tweed  near 
Canobie.  I  made  a  little  drawing  of  it.  I  also  made  a 
sketch  of  Kirtleton,  when  I  went  there  one  day  to  sec 
what  the  old  place  was  like.  It  belonged  at  that  time  to 
the  Honorable  Mrs.  Murray,  but  when  my  brother  Gouv 
went  there  in  1871  he  found  it  rented  to  a  farmer  named 



Franklin  and  no  longer  kept  up  as  a  gentleman's  place, 
though  the  farm  was  in  fine  order.  Mrs.  Franklin  was  very 
pleased  to  see  Gouv  and  gave  him  a  glass  of  wine.  An  old 
sheep-dog  greeted  him  in  a  friendly  way  and  she  remarked 
that  he  did  not  usually  speak  to  strangers,  but  was  wise 
enough  to  know  that  Gouv  had  a  right  there. 

I  met  a  Doctor  Carlisle  while  I  was  in  Scotland,  who 
lived  near  Kirtleton  and  was  able  to  tell  me  lots  of 
anecdotes  about  my  family,  especially  a  festive  old  party 
called  "Ned  of  the  Heuck,"  my  grandfather's  brother  and 
sheriff  of  the  county.  He  was  once  at  dinner  with  his 
friends  when  it  was  announced  that  the  house  had  taken 
fire,  whereupon  he  said  to  his  guests:  "Let's  have  another 
drink,  and  then  go  and  put  out  the  fire !" 

When  I  left  Barcaple  Mr.  Maitland  blew  me  off  to 
a  trip  to  Edinburgh.  He  wouldn't  let  me  pay  for  a  single 
thing,  and  when  I  protested  he  said:  "Just  think  how  many 
times  your  horses  have  been  to  Newburgh  for  me!"  We 
travelled  by  stage-coach  on  top,  and  Stewart  Maitland 
went  with  us.  On  the  way  we  passed  Glenae  House,  a 
fine  place  on  a  hill  surrounded  by  beautiful  w^oods,  belong- 
ing to  the  Dalzells,  which  Mr.  Maitland  pointed  out  to 
me  because  my  grandfather's  sister,  Anne  Armstrong,  had 
married  Robert  Dalzell.  While  we  were  in  Edinburgh  we 
dined  with  Mr.  Maitland's  brother,  who  had  the  title  of 
Lord  Barcaple,  given  him  when  he  was  solicitor-general  of 
Scotland;  another  brother  had  received  the  title  of  Lord 
Dundrennon  after  the  abbey  that  belonged  to  them,  but 
neither  title  was  hereditary.  The  Maitlands  are  a  dis- 
tinguished family;  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale  is  head  of  the 
house,  and  Admiral  Maitland,  who  carried  Napoleon  to 
exile  in  St.  Helena,  was  an  uncle  of  my  Mr.  Maitland. 



Of  course  I  went  to  Melrose,  and  while  lunching  at  the 
inn  I  met  a  Mr.  Pringle  who  lived  at  Galashiels,  an  elderly 
gentleman  who  seemed  to  take  a  fancy  to  me  and  asked 
me  to  go  home  with  him  and  spend  the  night.  I  accepted 
his  invitation  and  we  arrived  at  his  house  in  time  for  dinner, 
and  afterward  we  went  out  in  the  long  Scottish  twilight 
to  a  club  that  he  belonged  to,  where  they  had  a  bowling- 
green,  and  there  on  a  closely  clipped  lawn  I  played  my 
first  and  last  game  of  bowls  with  several  of  his  elderly 
friends.  They  were  interested  in  me,  a  young  American, 
and  were  most  kind  and  hospitable.  Later  in  the  evening 
we  all  assembled  at  Mr.  Pringle's  house,  where  we  gossiped 
and  drank  hot  whiskey  punch  and  talked  about  Bobby 
Burns.  Next  morning  at  breakfast  I  noticed  the  haivd- 
some  silver  on  the  table  and  said  jokingly  to  my  host: 
"You  ought  not  to  ask  strangers  like  myself  to  your  house, 
you  might  lose  your  spoons !"  We  were  sitting  at  a  round 
table,  he,  his  maiden  sister,  and  myself,  and  at  this  remark 
I  felt  him  kick  me  under  the  table;  evidently  he  did  not 
want  his  sister  to  know  that  I  was  a  perfect  stranger.  The 
Scotch  are  exceedingly  hospitable  and  I  think  particularly 
so  to  Americans. 

After  bidding  good-by  to  Mr.  Maitland  at  Edinburgh 
I  took  a  fine  walking  trip  through  the  Rob  Roy  country, 
stopping  at  Strath  Ire,  whence  the  MacGregors  sent  out 
the  fiery  cross  to  rouse  the  clans,  and  where  I  made  a 
sketch  of  Rob  Roy's  grave  and  an  old  ruined  cottage  near 
by.  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  an  artist  sketching  at 
Loch  Vail,  and  took  a  walk  with  him,  finding  him  a  pleas- 
ant fellow  from  whom  I  was  sorry  to  part.  I  learned 
afterward  that  he  was  Noel  Paton,  a  well-known  Edm- 
burgh  painter.     I   remember  writing  to  my  brother  that 



Paton  got  three  or  four  hundred  pounds  for  his  pictures. 
I  fancy  I  was  already  hoping  to  persuade  my  family  that 
an  artist's  career  was  not  always  a  disastrous  one. 

My  walk  took  several  days.  The  twilights  were  so 
long  that  I  could  read  my  guide-book  easily  at  half  past 
nine  o'clock,  and  in  the  evening  I  would  stop  at  some 
quaint  little  inn,  where  sometimes  I  got  delicious  broiled 
salmon-steaks  for  supper,  and  sometimes  oat-cake  and 
whiskey  and  nothing  else  whatever.  I  finished  my  Scottish 
experiences  with  a  trip  to  the  Pass  of  Glencoe.  I  am  told 
that  this  sad  valley  is  unchanged  after  the  passing  of  fifty 




"This  Is  the  end  of  town  I  love  the  best. 
O,  lovely  the  hour  of  light  from  the  burning  west — 
Of  light  that  lingers  and  fades  from  the  shadowy  square." 

— Gilder. 

I  heard  to-day,  1917,  that  old  Delmonico's,  on  the  cor- 
ner of  Broad  and  Beaver  Streets,  was  closed;  It  moved  there, 
I  think,  in  1846,  and  I  do  not  remember  the  time  when  it 
was  not  open  and  flourishing.  It  is  sad  that  Delmonico's 
and  Florian's  in  Venice  should  both  be  closing  on  account 
of  the  war.  This  place  of  Delmonico's  had  a  flavor  of 
Italy  about  it  because  of  the  marble  columns  at  the  corner, 
which  had  been  brought,  it  was  said,  from  Pompeii.  I 
beheve  the  original  Delmonico  brothers  had  a  pastry-shop 
in  William  Street  in  1828,  where  the  '*  female  members  of  the 
family  dispensed  bonbons,  pates  and  confections,"  but  of 
the  branches  in  my  remembrance  the  one  at  Broad  and 
Beaver  Streets  is  the  father.  They  had  a  "quick-lunch" 
counter  with  a  fascinating  array  of  tarts,  eclairs,  and  rum- 
cakes,  and  it  was  my  favorite  lunching-place  for  years.  It 
was  at  this  Beaver  Street  place  that  I  took  kmch  with  my 
dear  Gouv  the  day  before  I  entered  college  and  had  such 
good  apple  fritters;  we  had  a  table  on  the  Beaver  Street  side. 

There  used  to  be  a  branch  in  the  Stevens  House  on 
Broadway  near  Rector  Street;  later  they  had  a  place  in 
the  Grinnells'  old  house  on  the  corner  of  Fourteenth  Street 
and  Fifth  Avenue,  where  they  had  a  fine  ballroom,  and  it 
was  here  that  a  famous  ball  was  given — the  "Morris  and 



HoIIins  Ball."  I  remember  going  to  an  entertainment 
there  when  a  collection  of  pictures  was  raffled  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Sanitary  Fair  in  1864.  All  the  artists  con- 
tributed, among  others  Oliver  Stone,  who  gave  a  sketch 
he  had  made  of  Miss  Helen  Neilson,  afterward  my  wife. 
Mrs.  Lewis  Rutherfurd  knew  a  great  many  of  the  artists, 
and  when  she  asked  Stone  if  he  would  make  a  sketch  for 
the  fair,  he  said  he  would  if  Miss  Helen  Neilson  would  sit 
for  him.  Mrs.  Rutherfurd  was  the  mother  of  Stuyvesant 
Rutherfurd,  who  changed  his  name  to  Rutherfurd  Stuy- 
vesant when  he  became  Mr.  Peter  G.  Stuyvesant's  heir. 
He  got  a  third  of  "Uncle  Peter's"  estate,  which  included 
the  Bowery  farm  of  old  Governor  Stuyvesant;  Hamilton 
Fish  got  another  third,  and  the  rest  was  divided  among 
the  other  nephews  and  nieces.  Most  of  this  property  was 
on  Second  Avenue,  and  I  have  heard  that  if  "Uncle  Peter" 
had  been  wiHing  to  part  with  some  of  his  real  estate.  Second 
Avenue,  at  one  time  a  fashionable  street,  might  have  been 
the  main  avenue  of  the  city  instead  of  Fifth.  Stone's  pic- 
ture was  won  in  the  raffle  by  Mr.  Walters,  of  Baltimore. 
I  have  often  wondered  what  became  of  this  little  portrait 
of  my  wife.  The  Sanitary  Fair,  which  was  given  to  raise 
money  for  war  relief  in  the  Civil  War,  was  held  in  Union 
Square  and  was  a  tremendous  affair  for  those  days. 

It  was,  I  think,  in  the  Chambers  Street  building,  before 
Delmonico  went  there,  that  a  murder  was  committed  that 
made  a  vast  stir  at  the  time,  partly  because  the  murderer, 
Colt,  was  a  member  of  a  well-known  family.  An  "oblong 
box" — as  it  was  called  by  the  newspapers  until  the  term 
became  a  household  word — being  shipped  from  New  York 
to  New  Orleans  attracted  suspicion  because  of  its  odor,  and 
was  found  to  contain  a  dead  body.  Colt,  whose  office  was 
next  to  that  of  the  murdered  man,  having  been  seen  through 



a  keyhole  wiping  blood  off  the  floor,  was  convicted  and  im- 
prisoned in  the  Tombs.  But  the  prison  took  fire,  and  though 
a  charred  body  was  found  in  the  cell  occupied  by  Colt,  it 
was  suggested  that  this  had  been  substituted  for  that  of 
Colt  and  that  he  had  escaped,  but  it  was  never  proved. 
Judge  William  Kent  was  the  presiding  judge  at  the  trial, 
and  I  believe  that  when  the  skull  of  the  murdered  man  was 
brought  into  court,  Judge  Kent  was  so  horrified  that  he 
resigned  his  position,  dreading  a  hke  experience  again.  I 
am  writing  all  this  after  the  lapse  of  so  many  years  that 
the  details  may  not  be  quite  correct. 

Another  cause  celehre,  so  to  speak,  in  society,  was  the 
murder  in  1850  of  Doctor  Parkman  by  Professor  Webster, 
both  belonging  to  excellent  Boston  famihes.  My  wife  and 
I  were  once  at  a  dinner  in  Rome  when  this  murder  was 
mentioned,  and  it  was  found  that  two  of  the  guests,  Mrs. 
Van  Schaick  and  Arthur  Dexter,  were  relations,  the  one  of 
Parkman,  the  other  of  Webster.  Webster,  who  was  pro- 
fessor of  chemistry  at  Harvard,  killed  Parkman  in  the  col- 
lege laboratory,  because  he  got  tired  of  being  dunned  by 
him  for  some  money  he  had  lent  him.  "He  called  me  a 
scoundrel  and  a  liar,  and  went  on  heaping  on  me  the  most 
bitter  taunts  and  most  opprobrious  epithets."  He  killed 
him  with  a  stick  of  wood,  cut  up  his  body,  and  succeeded 
in  burning  most  of  the  remains  in  the  laboratory,  except 
the  teeth.  I  remember  a  detail  almost  too  disgusting  to 
repeat — the  janitor  of  the  college  was  an  important  wit- 
ness, because  he  had  discovered  blood-stains  on  Webster's 
floor  by  industriously  tasting  all  the  likely  spots  he  could 
find  in  the  building ! 

An  interesting  letter  describing  the  trial,  from  Bishop 
Eastburn  to  John  Neilson,  my  wife's  father,  shows  the 
intense  feeling  at  the  time. 



"When  at  last  the  tidings  came,"  he  writes,  ''that  he 
was  to  die  upon  the  gallows,  it  quite  overcame  me.  Noth- 
ing that  we  know  of  in  the  annals  of  crime  exceeds  it,  con- 
sidering all  the  circumstances.  Being  favored  by  the  offi- 
cers with  one  of  the  best  places  I  have  attended  the  trial 
through  as  great  a  portion  of  it  as  my  duties  would  allow. 
It  was  an  awful  scene,  witnessed  by  a  dense  and  excited 
crowd  of  the  most  distinguished  persons  of  all  professions. 
Webster  preserved  through  the  whole  a  calmness  which 
was  anything  but  favorable  to  him,  and  when  the  Chief 
Justice  asked  him  if  he  had  anything  to  say  before  he 
delivered  his  charge  he  made  a  few  remarks  which  affected 
everybody  with  the  most  perfect  conviction  of  his  guilt. 
He  was  hard,  cold,  vapid,  empty;  and  his  profession  of 
confidence  *in  his  innocence  and  in  his  God'  only  strength- 
ened the  evidence  which  the  trial  had  brought  out  against 
him.     It  was  an  awful  spectacle. 

"What  a  singular  event  in  the  course  of  Providence 
that  the  very  teeth  which  Dr.  Parkman  had  had  made  in 
order  that  he  might  be  present  at  the  opening  of  the  Medi- 
cal College,  for  which  he  gave  the  ground,  should  convict 
his  murderer.  The  utter  feebleness  of  acquisition  without 
principle  was  very  eloquently  put  by  the  Attorney  General 
and  illustrated  by  reference  to  Eugene  Aram  and  Dr. 

Doctor  Eastburn,  Bishop  of  Massachusetts,  was  the 
leader  of  the  "Low  Church"  party;  they  say  that  when 
Upjohn,  the  architect,  built  the  Church  of  the  Ascension 
in  New  York  he  wanted  a  chancel  such  as  is  usually  seen 
in  Gothic  churches,  but  Doctor  Eastburn,  at  that  time 
the  rector,  insisted  on  its  being  shallow,  so  that  there 
"would  be  no  room  for  High  Church  doings." 

Bishop  Eastburn,  in  another  letter  from  Boston,  speaks 



of  seeing  Thackeray  when  he  was  in  this  country  in  1852. 
"I  had  last  Sunday  a  distant  view  of  the  distingue  Mr. 
Thackeray  in  Trinity  Church.  He  is  a  rough,  blufl-Iooking 
man.  The  other  evening  at  the  Mclodian  Mr.  James,  the 
novelist,  delivered  a  eulogy  on  the  Duke  of  Wellington; 
he  made  a  most  prodigious  failure.  There  were  1500 
present."  A  little  later  he  writes:  **We  have  had  a  nice 
treat  in  Mr.  Thackeray's  lectures.  His  pathos  is  fully 
equal  to  his  humor,  and  his  elocution  so  perfect — being 
English !  Our  young  lads  and  soi-disant  orators,  who  'saw 
the  air  with  their  hands'  may  learn  from  him  that  elo- 
quence is  not  in  paws  and  elbows  but  in  the  intonations 
of  the  voice.  His  recitation  of  Addison's  'Soon  as  the 
evening  shades  prevail'  was  charming." 

Dickens  made  a  great  sensation  when  he  came  to 
America  in  1867.  Of  course,  like  everybody  else,  I  went 
to  hear  him  read,  but  I  do  not  remember  being  particularly 
impressed;  he  did  not  read  well  and  was  rather  common 
looking.  When  he  made  his  first  visit  here  in  1842  I  was 
too  small  to  remember  him,  but  there  is  an  amusing  para- 
graph in  an  old  letter  of  my  Aunt  Margaret  Salter's  to  the 

"I  heard  from  George  Elliot  that  Foster  went  to  the 
Boz  Ball  and  was  delighted.  There  were  3000  persons 
there.  He  says  it  was  the  chief  topic  of  conversation 
everywhere  beforehand  and  the  result  quite  fulfilled  their 
expectations.  It  was  repeated  the  next  evening.  When 
Boz  and  his  wife  entered  people  filed  off  each  side  and  let 
him  walk  up  the  middle  of  the  room.  They  say  that 
28,000  stewed  oysters  were  eaten  that  evening,  and  10,000 
pickled,  4000  kisses,  6000  mottoes,  and  50  hams  and  50 
tongues.  I  am  afraid  at  this  rate  oysters  will  become 
scarce !" 



A  little  later  she  writes:  "The  Boz  mania  seems  to  be 
subsiding  in  New  York.  He  has  been  quite  sick  and  has 
refused  all  public  entertainments  in  Philadelphia — he  says 
he  wants  to  shake  hands  with  the  Americans  in  their 
homes.  The  poor  man  must  be  tired  shaking  hands  and 
going  to  balls  and  parties." 

I  remember  well  an  old  New  York  character,  Captain 
Labouche,  famous  for  his  great  age.  He  used  to  go  regu- 
larly to  the  Church  of  the  Ascension,  and  as  he  was  deaf 
he  had  a  chair  placed  for  him  at  the  head  of  the  aisle  and 
made  his  responses  in  a  very  loud,  squeaky  voice.  He  had 
been  a  soldier  of  Napoleon.  When  he  reached  his  hun- 
dredth year  some  of  his  friends  subscribed  to  a  fund  to  give 
him  a  yearly  income,  thinking,  of  course,  that  it  would 
not  be  for  very  long,  but  he  lasted  ten  years  more.  Strange 
to  say,  he  was  addicted  to  the  use  of  opium  and  had  grad- 
ually increased  his  dose  of  laudanum  until  he  was  able  to 
take  half  a  tumblerful;  at  a  dinner  given  in  his  honor,  when 
they  drank  his  health,  he  responded  in  his  favorite  beverage. 

This  old  gentleman,  however,  was  a  youngster  com- 
pared to  an  ancient  inhabitant  of  Fishkill,  Engelburt  HofF, 
a  Norwegian,  a  tenant  of  the  Verplancks,  whose  age  is 
vouched  for  by  the  most  reputable  authorities.  He  lived 
to  be  one  hundred  and  twenty-eight.  The  Gentleman  s 
Magazine  of  London  mentions  his  death  and  age  at  Fishkill, 
in  1765,  and  adds  that  he  had  been  one  of  the  Life  Guards 
of  William  OL  He  distinctly  remembered  hearing  of  the 
news  of  the  execution  of  Charles  I  when  he  was  ploughing 
a  field  in  Norway. 

There  used  to  be  an  old  Frenchman  about  Marlborough, 
not  so  very  long  ago,  who  was  called  "Waterloo  Frank'* 
for  the  odd  reason  that  he  had  been  born  on  the  retreat 
from  Moscow. 



A  tragedy  of  the  time  I  am  recalling,  about  1858,  was 
the  death  of  Lawrence  Waterbury's  little  daughter  Kitty, 
a  child  of  thirteen,  who  was  a  great  friend  of  I  lelen  Neil- 
son's.  Mr.  Robert  Roosevelt,  the  President's  uncle,  came 
one  day  to  the  Waterbury  place  on  the  Sound  to  invite 
the  family  to  go  out  for  a  sail,  but  finding  them  all  gone 
to  a  fair  he  took  with  him  Kitty  and  her  governess,  I  think 
named  Miss  Cherrytree.  It  got  rather  rough  and  his  two 
guests  W'Cnt  down  in  the  cabin;  suddenly  a  squall  struck 
the  little  boat  and  she  went  over.  Being  on  deck,  Mr. 
Roosevelt  and  his  man  were  saved,  but  the  two  in  the 
cabin  were  lost,  for  the  door  was  fast  closed  by  a  wave. 

About  i860  Mr.  Daniel  Le  Roy  built  a  house  in  West 
Twenty-third  Street  near  Fifth  Avenue,  and  at  the  same 
time  Mrs.  Neilson,  my  wife's  mother,  bought  a  lot  from 
Stuyvesant  Rutherfurd,  237  East  Seventeenth  Street,  on 
Stuyvesant  Square,  and  built  a  house  that  cost  over  fifty 
thousand  dollars.  Mr.  Le  Roy's  house  was  smaller  and 
not  nearly  so  fine  as  the  Neilsons',  but  about  1870  he  sold 
his  house  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  and 
the  Neilsons'  house  was  sold  for  forty-seven  thousand  five 
hundred — another  instance  of  the  changes  in  values  of 
New  York  real  estate.  Mrs.  Daniel  Le  Roy  was  my  wife's 
aunt,  a  charming  and  extremely  dignified  old  kidy,  but  I 
believe  in  her  youth  she  had  been  exceedingly  sentimental. 
They  say  that  when  she  was  a  young  girl  she  once  made 
some  currant  jelly,  and  being  in  a  pensive  mood  she  wrote 
on  the  labels  of  the  jars,  "this  was  made  by  poor  Susan," 
as  she  felt  sure  she  was  doomed  to  an  early  death.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  she  lived  to  a  fine  old  age. 

Mr.  Hamilton  Fish,  my  wife's  uncle,  remembered  many 
interesting  things  about  New  York,  and  when  I  went  to 
see  him,  as  I  often  did,  in  his  house  on  Stuyvesant  Square, 



on  the  corner  of  Seventeenth  Street  and  Second  Avenue, 
I  liked  to  get  him  talking  about  those  old  times.  I  once 
told  him  that  he  ought  to  get  some  good  writer  to  come 
and  talk  to  him,  so  that  his  reminiscences  might  be  pre- 
served, and  he  said  he  had  often  thought  of  doing  so,  but 
unluckily  he  never  did. 

Mr.  Fish  went  to  a  school  kept  by  Mr.  Bancel,  and  an 
excellent  school  he  said  it  was.  Mr.  Bancel  was  a  kind  man 
who  sometimes  played  marbles  with  him  and  the  other 
boys.  In  his  old  age  Mr.  Fish  still  seemed  really  flattered 
and  pleased  at  the  honor  that  Mr.  Bancel  had  done  him 
in  playing  marbles  with  him. 

Mrs.  Fish's  sister,  Mrs.  Griffin,  was  also  a  most  agree- 
able person  to  talk  to  about  old  times.  She  was  an  efficient 
member  of  the  Sanitary  Commission  in  the  Civil  War, 
which  was  the  Red  Cross  of  that  day,  and  when  young 
was  considered  quite  advanced  in  her  views;  she  was  ac- 
tually a  friend  of  Doctor  Elizabeth  Blackwell  and  her  sister 
Emily,  the  first  women  doctors  in  this  country,  and  was  once 
reproved  by  a  member  of  her  family  for  allowing  her  step- 
daughter, Mary  Griffin,  to  wait  in  the  carriage  outside 
their  house  while  she  went  in  to  call — *'a  young  lady  should 
not  even  have  been  seen  outside  the  house  of  such  persons !" 
Nevertheless,  in  her  old  age  Mrs.  Griffin  was  an  anti- 
suffragist  and  abhorred  telephones.  (I  have  always  been 
a  little  impatient  with  people  who  think  that  women  ought 
not  to  vote.) 

The  Honorable  Charles  Sumner  was  once  staying  at 
the  Fishs'  house  at  Garrisons  when  I  was  there;  he  was 
an  old  friend  of  the  family  and  a  tremendous  talker,  ac- 
customed to  holding  forth  at  great  length  and  having  every 
one  hsten  with  deference  and  in  silence — though  Mr.  Fish 
was  a  good  talker  himself.     We  were  at  dinner,  and  Mr. 



Sumner  began  telling  us  all  the  details  of  Lincoln's  death, 
at  which  he  had  been  present,  relating  it  circumstantially 
and  impressively.  Gradually  he  worked  up  to  the  most 
dramatic  point  in  his  story — when  Mrs.  Lincoln  threw 
her  arms  around  her  husband  and  cried  in  heart-rending 
tones,  "Live,  ah  live! — Live,  ah  live!"  It  was  in  the  eve- 
ning and  the  lamps  were  lighted  on  the  table  and  the  win- 
dows were  open — we  were  all  listening  in  breathless  silence, 
a  silence  interrupted  by  a  piercing  shriek  from  Edith  Fish 
— she  had  found  a  June  bug  entangled  in  her  hair,  and  Mr. 
Sumner's  dramatic  climax  was  completely  spoiled,  much 
to  his  disgust. 

One  of  the  best  mayors  New  York  ever  had,  Mr.  Smith 
Ely,  was  an  old  friend  of  Mr.  Fish's.  He  was  intelligent 
and  agreeable,  and  I  have  had  many  interesting  talks  with 
him  at  the  Century  Club.  He  told  me  he  had  known  Mr. 
Fish  for  many  years,  ever  since  the  time  that  he  was  a  young 
man  in  Mr.  de  Peyster's  law  office,  and  had  always  so  ad- 
mired him  that  although  a  Democrat  himself  he  always 
voted  for  Mr.  Fish  whenever  he  ran  for  office.  Mr.  Ely 
was  a  very  rich  man,  but  he  once  told  me  that  he  never 
kept  any  accounts  except  his  check-book.  He  was  a  bache- 
lor and  lived  not  far  from  the  Century  Club,  and  every 
day  after  his  dinner  he  would  stop  at  a  little  ice-cream 
saloon  in  Sixth  Avenue  for  his  dessert  of  ice-cream. 

Mr.  Ely  told  me  an  interesting  anecdote  about  Daniel 
Webster.  A  well-known  man  gave  an  evening  reception 
for  him;  the  many  distinguished  guests  all  assembled,  an 
hour  or  so  went  by,  but  still  Mr.  Webster  did  not  arrive. 
After  an  uneasy  interval,  a  servant  whispered  to  the  host 
that  some  one  wished  to  see  him  at  the  door;  he  went  out 
and  found  Mr.  Webster  in  a  carriage  with  several  other 
gentlemen;  he  had  been  dining  and  was  then  so  much  over- 


come  that  he  was  unable  to  speak,  in  fact,  he  was  quite 
insensible.  A  gentleman  who  knew  him  well,  suggested 
that  if  a  tumbler  of  raw  brandy  and  cracked  ice  were  ad- 
ministered to  him  he  would  soon  be  all  right.  Sure  enough, 
as  soon  as  he  began  to  "suck  on  it,"  as  Mr.  Ely  expressed 
it,  he  began  to  revive  and  by  the  time  he  had  drunk  the 
whole  glass  he  was  quite  himself  and  went  into  the  house. 
All  the  guests  were  presented  to  him  and  he  appeared  to 
be  his  usual  self,  and  the  whole  affair  passed  off  without 
further  difficulty. 

When  Daniel  Webster  visited  England,  the  English 
were  much  impressed  by  him.  Some  great  man  said  of 
him,  "that  every  word  he  uttered  weighed  a  pound,"  and 
another  that  he  "looked  like  a  cathedraL"  My  brother 
Gouv  once  heard  him  speak  at  Poughkeepsie,  and  was  tre- 
mendously struck  by  his  splendid  address.  But  he  knew 
just  when  to  use  his  powers  of  oratory.  I  have  heard  that 
he  was  once  engaged  in  a  very  important  case,  with  eminent 
counsel  opposed  to  him — it  may  have  been  Rufus  Choate 
— the  question  was  in  regard  to  a  patent  on  some  car-wheels, 
and  the  wheels  were  brought  into  court.  The  counsel  on 
the  other  side  made  a  long  and  eloquent  speech,  explain- 
ing the  whole  case  thoroughly  and  ending  with  an  impas- 
sioned appeal.  When  Webster  got  up  he  merely  pointed 
to  the  wheels  and  said  in  his  grandest  manner,  "Gentle- 
men of  the  jury,  there  are  the  wheels!"  and  without  an- 
other word  sat  down.    He  won  the  case. 

I  can  remember  Mrs.  Daniel  Webster  well.  She  was 
an  aunt  of  the  Robert  Morris  girls,  and  I  used  to  see  her 
at  their  house,  where  she  was  always  known  as  "Aunt  Web- 
ster." She  was  also  an  aunt  of  Mrs.  Newbold  Edgar,  who 
was  a  Miss  Appleton  of  Boston.  This  Mrs.  Edgar  was  a 
handsome  woman  and  very  attractive,  and  was  at  the  Mor- 



rises*  a  great  deal.  "Aunt  Webster"  was  a  tall,  stern  old 
lady — she  was  then  a  widow — the  kind  with  whom  one 
never  felt  quite  at  ease,  but  she  was  polite  to  me  and  once 
asked  me  to  a  dinner  party. 

A  w^II-known  figure  on  Broadway  about  i860  was  Walt 
Whitman.  I  often  used  to  see  him,  generally  on  the  west 
side  of  Broadway  near  City  Hall  Park.  He  was  a  great 
walker,  a  large  shaggy  man,  wearing  a  loose  shirt  open  in 
front  wath  no  cravat,  showing  his  hairy  breast.  He  would 
stop  often  at  the  corners  and  gaze  at  the  sky.  At  this  time 
nearly  every  young  lady  in  New  York  wore  a  bright-blue 
silk  dress,  of  the  shade  called  mazarine,  a  scarlet  camePs- 
hair  shawl,  and  a  white  bonnet;  it  was  really  absurd  to 
look  about  a  church  and  sec  dozens  of  girls  all  dressed  ahkc. 
Of  course,  all  wore  hoops.  This  was  also  the  era  of  the 
horrid  little  green  caterpillars  we  called  "measuring 
worms,"  dangling  on  webs  from  the  trees,  so  that  it  was 
impossible  to  walk  along  the  street  without  having  them 
drop  all  over  one.  Many  of  the  trees  in  New  York  were 
cut  down  at  this  time  in  an  attempt  to  get  rid  of  the  pest, 
and  the  disagreeable  little  Enghsh  sparrow  was  imported 
for  the  express  purpose  of  eating  up  the  worms.  The 
remedy  was  worse  than  the  disease. 

In  those  days  the  place  to  get  good  chocolate  was  at 
Effray's  on  Broadway  and  Ninth  Street.  It  must  have  been 
about  1880  that  Huyler  opened  a  little  shop  on  Broadway 
near  Seventeenth  Street,  where  at  first  they  only  sold  pLiin 
candy,  such  as  toffee  and  butter-scotch;  they  had  a  liberal 
way  of  keeping  the  candy  uncovered  on  the  counter  (cus- 
tomers were  expected  to  munch  a  little  while  waiting  for 
their  packages),  which  was  most  attractive  to  the  young.  It 
was  a  good  advertisement  and  there  was  much  lamentation 
when  the  custom  after  some  years  was  given  up.     In  1880 



Dean  was  just  across  the  street  from  this  place  of  Huyler's; 
they  had  in  their  window  a  "make-beheve"  mould  of  wine 
jelly  made  of  amber  glass,  much  admired  by  my  children. 
I  think  that  at  first  it  was  displayed  in  the  window  of  their 
new  place  on  Fifth  Avenue,  but  I  have  not  seen  it  there 
for  some  time.  The  wedding-cake  when  I  was  married 
was  made  by  Dean,  and  for  old  times'  sake  we  ordered  some 
cake  from  there  when  my  wife  and  I  celebrated  our  Golden 
Wedding  Day  in  191 6. 

I  well  remember  the  excitement  over  the  prize-fight 
between  Yankee  Sulhvan  and  Tom  Hyer,  though  I  did 
not  see  it  myself.  Sullivan  was  a  celebrated  English  prize- 
fighter, and  came  to  America  with  a  great  reputation.  Hyer 
was  a  native  of  Newburgh,  a  young  and  somewhat  inex- 
perienced man,  but  known  to  possess  fighting  abifity.  The 
betting  among  sporting  men  was  very  heavy  and  the  ex- 
citement and  interest  throughout  the  whole  country  was 
intense.  They  had  great  difficulty  in  selecting  the  ground, 
for  then  as  now  it  was  against  the  law,  and  the  pohce  were 
following  them  around  determined  to  stop  it.  However, 
they  finally  outwitted  the  police  and  the  fight  took  place. 
Hyer  immediately  outclassed  his  opponent  and  won  easily. 
A  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Marrin,  attended  the  battle,  and  he 
told  me  that  each  time  that  Hyer  struck  SuHivan  the  blood 
flew  out  in  a  spray  all  over  the  prize-ring. 

I  saw  the  Prince  of  Wales  when  he  arrived  in  New  York 
in  i860.  I  was  stationed  in  a  window  up-stairs  in  Broad- 
way just  below  Fulton  Street.  He  was  a  sfight,  pretty, 
boyish  figure.  The  next  time  I  saw  him,  he  was  driving  with 
the  Princess  of  Wales  at  the  Ascot  races  in  1869,  and  I  often 
saw  him  in  Paris  in  1878,  an  elderly  fine-looking  man,  al- 
ways wearing  the  decoration  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  when 
he  was  in  Paris. 

In  the  winter  of  1863,  I  was  boarding  in  Thirty-third 



Street  near  Fifth  Avenue,  when  I  was  taken  very  ill  with 
pleurisy  and  a  touch  of  pneumonia.  As  soon  as  the  Robert 
Morris  family  heard  of  my  illness  they  insisted  upon  my 
going  to  their  house,  on  the  northwest  corner  of  Thirteentli 
Street  and  University  Place — the  house  is  still  there  but 
fallen  from  its  high  estate.  I  was  invited  to  stay  as  long 
as  I  liked,  in  fact,  until  I  was  well.  I  had  grown  very  inti- 
mate with  the  Morrises  and  felt  at  home  there,  so  I  ac- 
cepted their  generous  invitation  with  alacrity.  The  family 
consisted  of  Mr.  Robert  Morris,  one  of  the  sweetest-tem- 
pered men  I  have  ever  known,  his  son  Edgar,  and  three 
daughters,  Kate,  Cornelia,  and  Nellie.  Kate  had  just  been 
married  to  Henry  Delafield  Phelps,  a  college  friend  of  mine 
at  Trinity. 

They  were  all  heavenly  kind;  no  one  could  have  been 
sweeter  or  more  devoted  than  they  were  to  me.  I  went 
right  to  bed  as  soon  as  I  arrived,  and  lay  there  for  many 
weeks.  I  had  a  small  room  on  the  third  floor  looking  out 
on  Thirteenth  Street;  the  wall-paper  had  a  fixed  pattern 
on  it  and  I  remember  how  I  used  to  count  those  spots,  lying 
in  bed,  across  and  back  again  over  and  over,  until  I  was 
too  weak  to  do  it  any  more.  When  I  got  better  I  would 
look  out  of  the  window  into  Thirteenth  Street  and  watch 
the  careless  passers-by  and  wonder  if  I  should  ever  again 
like  them  walk  the  streets  a  well  man.  But  there  were 
also  very  pleasant  hours.  Not  only  were  the  Morrises  so 
good  to  me,  but  other  friends  were  kind  and  sent  mc  all 
sorts  of  good  things  and  flowers,  so  that  I  can  look  back 
on  those  weeks  of  illness  with  real  pleasure.  I  often  look 
up  as  I  pass  through  East  Thirteenth  Street,  and  I  can 
still  see  the  window  of  my  little  room  where  I  wiis  so  ill, 
but,  through  the  friendship  and  kindness  of  those  dear  peo- 
ple, so  happy.    Alas,  all  of  them  are  gone  now ! 

University  Place  was  then  a  handsome  street,  mostly 



occupied  by  fine  private  houses  all  the  way  down  to  Wash- 
ington Square.  Mr.  James  de  Peyster  lived  on  the  same 
block  with  the  Morrises;  Mr.  WiHiam  H.  Aspinwall  had  a 
handsome  house  and  gallery  of  paintings  of  the  old  mas- 
ters on  the  corner  of  Tenth  Street;  Mr.  James  Brown  was 
on  the  corner  of  Eleventh  Street;  James  Renwick,  the  archi- 
tect of  Grace  Church,  lived  there,  and  so  did  the  Emmets; 
lower  down  were  the  New  York  University  and  the  Union 
Theological  Seminary.  Gus  Schermerhorn's  house,  next 
to  the  Society  Library,  is  almost  the  only  one  left  there 

The  Goelet  house  on  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  Nine- 
teenth Street  was  swept  away  only  a  few  years  ago;  there 
are  many  people  who  remember  the  brown  house,  very 
dreary-looking  in  its  latter  days,  standing  back  from  the 
street  in  a  neglected  garden,  where  pheasants  were  some- 
times to  be  seen,  and  often  a  cow  trying  to  get  a  little 
pleasure  out  of  the  dusty  grass. 

Doctor  George  Elliot,  my  doctor,  was  a  delightful  fellow 
and  charming  companion;  I  think  I  owe  my  life  to  him, 
for  he  was  one  of  the  then  new  school  and  treated  me  with 
great  skill.  He  used  to  stay  with  us  at  Danskammer,  and 
I  remember  that  we  always  gave  him  one  of  the  two  rooms 
on  either  side  of  the  front  door,  for  the  windows  had  black- 
walnut  shutters  on  the  inside,  and  he  liked  to  close  them 
at  night  to  keep  out  the  sound  of  the  crowing  cocks.  The 
father  of  George  and  Daniel  Giraud  Elliot  was  a  member 
of  the  firm  of  Foster,  EHiot  and  Company,  of  6§  South 
Street,  established  in  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. They  were  old-time  merchants,  owning  their  own 
ships  and  often  carrying  their  own  cargoes;  one  of  their 
ships  was  named  the  Rebecca  after  Mrs.  Elliot. 

Gus  Van  Cortlandt  was  a  cousin  of  the  Morrises — his 



father  had  changed  his  name  from  Morris  to  Van  Cort- 
landt — and  he  was  in  and  out  of  my  room  all  the  time.  As 
he  was  then  studying  medicine,  he  was  much  interested  in 
my  case.  He  was  a  rough,  hearty  fellow  who  had  been  a 
sailor  for  a  time,  and  who  retained  a  loud  seaman's  voice. 
Without  consulting  Doctor  Elliot,  he  conceived  the  idea 
that  a  blister  on  my  side  would  be  good  For  me,  so  I  allowed 
him  to  put  on  an  enormous  blister  and  keep  it  there  until 
there  was  a  swelling  like  a  great  bladder,  which  so  much 
disturbed  Doctor  Elliot  that  he  positively  forbade  Gus  ever 
to  prescribe  for  me  again. 

I  must  have  been  at  the  Morrises'  from  Christmas  time 
until  the  spring.  I  was  practising  law  when  I  was  taken 
ill,  and  my  long  illness  was  a  great  interruption.  Just  be- 
fore, I  had  conducted  and  settled  a  case  in  favor  of  Mr. 
Samuel  Bowne  against  the  Staten  Island  Dyeing  Company. 
It  was  for  diverting  the  water  from  a  spring  on  Mr.  Bowne's 
place,  and  for  my  services  I  had  received  a  fee  of  four  hun- 
dred dollars,  a  nice  wad  to  pay  my  doctor's  bill. 

In  June,  after  leaving  the  Morrises,  I  went  for  a  long 
visit  to  the  Bancroft  Davises,  who  had  rented  our  Dans- 
kammer  house  and  were  living  there.  I  had  a  nice  saddle- 
horse  to  ride  in  the  morning,  and  when  I  came  in  about 
eleven  they  made  me  drink  cream;  then  I  would  go  out 
in  the  garden  with  Mrs.  Davis,  armed  with  a  pair  of  garden 
shears  and  a  basket,  and  we  would  cut  roses  along  the  wide, 
old-fashioned  garden  walk. 

Once  when  I  was  staying  with  the  Davises,  it  may 
have  been  this  time.  Miss  Cochrane,  a  relation  of  Mrs. 
Davis  and  a  charming  girl,  was  staying  there  also.  She 
had  beautiful  hair,  which  I  remember  particularly  because 
of  an  odd  little  incident.  One  evening,  sitting  on  the  porch 
in  the  twilight,  we  all  got  talking  about  bats,  speculating 



idly  whether  ft  were  true  that  they  sometimes  became  en- 
tangled in  women's  hair.  Miss  Cochrane  must  have  gone 
to  bed  with  her  mind  running  on  bats,  for  during  the  night 
she  had  a  bad  dream,  and  in  her  sleep  she  got  a  pair  of  scis- 
sors and  cut  off  one  of  her  two  beautiful  long  braids  of  hair. 
You  can  imagine  her  consternation  the  next  morning. 

Mrs.  Davis  was  one  of  the  loveliest  and  most  culti- 
vated women  I  have  ever  known.  She  was  withal  a  great 
lady.  Her  mother  was  Miss  Gracie,  and  her  father,  James 
G.  King,  a  distinguished  citizen  of  New  York.  He  was 
one  of  three  brothers,  all  educated  in  England,  one  of  whom 
was  the  Governor  of  New  York  and  the  other,  Charles 
King,  was  president  of  Columbia  College.  Some  years 
ago  I  designed  and  built  a  monument  for  the  King  family, 
a  boulder  on  their  old  family  place  in  Massachusetts,  on 
which  was  fastened  a  large  bronze  tablet  bearing  the  names 
of  all  the  distinguished  members  of  the  family.  It  was 
an  imposing  list. 

Bancroft  Davis  went  to  Danskammer  for  his  health — 
he  had  broken  down  from  overwork  and  was  supposed  to 
have  only  one  lung,  but  country  hfe  completely  restored 
him.  The  Davises  were  much  given  to  hospitality  and 
kept  open  house  at  Danskammer,  liking  it  there  so  much 
that  later  they  bought  land  from  us,  and  Richard  Hunt 
built  them  a  beautiful  house  in  the  style  of  Fontainebleau, 
costing  about  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  This  lovely 
place,  "o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay,"  was  afterward  sold 
to  the  Rose  Brick  Company,  and  has  now  entirely  disap- 
peared— all  made  into  bricks !  One  of  Richard  Hunt's 
most  successful  houses  is  the  gray  Vanderbilt  house  on  the 
corner  of  Fifty-second  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue — I  wonder 
how  many  of  the  passers-by  have  noticed  the  little  figure 
of  Hunt  himself,  as  ''Master  Builder,"  perched  on  one  of 



the  pinnacles.  The  paving  stones  of  the  sidewalk  in  front 
of  this  house  and  of  the  two  brownstone  Vanderbilt  houses 
on  the  block  below  are  the  largest  in  New  York— I  dare 
say  in  the  world. 

After  graduating  at  Harvard,  Mr.  Davis  went  as  secre- 
tary of  legation  to  London,  and  then  into  partnership 
with  Judge  Kent,  Dorman  B.  Eaton,  and  Henry  E.  Taiier, 
who  were  then  engaged  in  a  very  large  law  business.  He 
was  also  correspondent  of  the  London  Times  in  New  York 
for  years.  When  he  retired  and  went  to  IWc  in  Newburgh, 
he  was  found  to  be  so  public-spirited  and  useful  in  the  neigh- 
borhood that  they  sent  him  to  the  New  York  Legislature, 
and  from  there  he  was  selected  by  Hamilton  Fish  to  be 
his  assistant-secretary  of  state  and  later  was  appointed 
minister  to  Berlin.  He  was  the  American  agent  who  con- 
ducted the  case  for  the  Alabama  Claims  before  the  Geneva 
Tribunal,  and  later  in  life  was  judge  of  the  Court  of  Claims 
in  Washington  and  reporter  of  the  Supreme  Court. 

The  firm  of  Kent,  Eaton,  and  Kent — later  Eaton,  Davis, 
and  Taiier — was  an  important  one.  They  were  all  notable 
men.  Dorman  B.  Eaton  was  a  fine  lawyer  and  a  public- 
spirited  man,  very  active  in  the  prosecution  of  the  Tweed 
ring  and  in  the  matter  of  Jay  Gould.  He  so  excited  the 
enmity  of  these  people  that  he  was  attacked  and  sand- 
bagged in  the  street,  and  was  so  badly  injured  that  he 
never  fully  recovered. 

Henry  E.  Taiier,  another  partner,  was  a  handsome  and 
delightful  fellow,  a  great  friend  of  mine.  He  had  a  reall\ 
beautiful  face,  although  he  had  lost  an  eye.  It  happened 
when  he  was  a  boy  living  in  a  basement  house  on  the  south 
side  of  Washington  Square— I  think  it  was  number  48, 
which  was  removed  when  Sullivan  Street  was  opened. 
Taiier  was  standing  in  the  street  in  front  of  his  house  when 



a  rowdy  boy  passing  by  insulted  him  and  they  had  a  fight. 
Some  masons  happened  to  be  mixing  some  quicklime  near 
by,  and  the  rowdy  picked  up  a  handful  of  lime  and  thrust 
it  in  his  face  and  blinded  him  in  one  eye  for  life.  Jim  Morris 
was  in  Tailer's  class  at  college,  and  he  told  me  that  Tailer 
could  see  more  with  his  one  eye  than  any  other  boy  with 
two;    he  graduated  at  the  head  of  the  class. 

Eaton,  Davis,  and  Tailer  had  much  important  business. 
Among  other  things  they  were  counsel  for  the  Erie  Rail- 
way, which  had  gone  into  the  hands  of  a  receiver,  and  they 
managed  the  whole  matter  of  reconstruction  and  putting 
the  road  on  its  feet.  The  stock  got  as  low  as  five  dollars 
a  share,  and  the  firm  knew  positively  that  it  would  rise 
enormously  as  soon  as  the  affairs  were  settled,  but  they  did 
not  think  it  right  to  buy  any  stock,  because  of  the  con- 
fidential relation  they  held  to  the  road.  They  all  had  high 

Old  Daniel  Drew  was  a  client  of  theirs.  He  was  a  power 
in  Wall  Street  at  that  time  and  made  an  enormous  for- 
tune, all  of  which  I  believe  he  afterward  lost.  He  was 
a  funny-looking,  shabby,-  shambling  old  man,  something 
between  a  Methodist  parson  and  a  broken-down  farmer, 
and  never  gave  any  appearance  of  wealth.  He  had  begun 
life  as  a  drover  and  in  early  times  used  to  drive  herds  of 
cattle  down  to  Carthage  Landing,  opposite  Danskammer. 
Drovers  in  those  days  did  not  use  banks,  but  kept  all  their 
money  in  their  pockets  in  a  huge  roll  called  a  wad. 

I  studied  law  for  a  year  in  the  office  of  Eaton,  Davis, 
and  Tailer  at  45  Wall  Street.  Judge  Kent  had  formerly 
been  a  member  of  the  firm,  when  it  was  Kent,  Davis,  and 
Kent.  The  first  day  that  I  entered  the  office  he  took  me 
into  the  law  library  and  handed  me  a  book,  saying,  "Begin 
on  that."    It  was  the  first  volume  of  Kent's  Commentaries, 



written  by  his  father,  Chancellor  Kent.  Judge  Kent  made 
me  his  secretary  to  take  notes  for  the  cases  in  which  he 
was  referee,  and  this  was  a  good  and  Interesting  experience 
for  a  young  man,  as  many  distinguished  men  argued  cases 
before  him.  Judge  Kent  had  a  private  room  for  his  refer- 
ences and  shared  it  with  a  grave  Spanish  don,  a  lawyer, 
who  was  seldom  there.  This  gentleman  had  adorned  his 
walls  with  two  vile  landscapes,  sunsets.  In  those  days 
men  were  often  to  be  seen  in  the  streets  with  pairs  of  such 
pictures,  all  painted  in  the  same  way  by  the  hundred,  usually 
sunsets,  which  they  sold  for  five  dollars  apiece,  including 
the  frames.  Such  were  these  landscapes.  I  had  a  fellow 
student  about  my  age,  named  Newell,  and  we  played  many 
pranks  with  the  don's  furniture  and  pictures.  We  took 
large  red  notarial  seals  and  improved  the  sunsets  by  past- 
ing them  in  and  adding  long  rays  of  white  chalk  to  repre- 
sent the  setting  sun.  Newell  was  a  bright,  amusing  fellow, 
and  after  hours  we  used  to  have  fine  wrestHng  matches. 
He  afterward  distinguished  himself  by  marrying  the  no- 
torious Adah  Isaacs  Menken,  an  actress  especially  well 
known  in  her  famous  part  of  Mazeppa.  I  once  saw  her 
in  this  play.  She  had  a  beautiful  figure  and  in  the  great 
scene  she  was  bound  on  the  back  of  a  fiery  black  steed, 
"a  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed,"  and  dashed  across  the 
desert  landscape,  clad  in  flesh-colored  tights.  She  exxited 
much  admiration !  This  actress  had  a  picturesque  career; 
I  believe  she  took  "Mazeppa"  all  over  the  world.  Her 
matrimonial  history  was  equally  varied.  She  began  by 
marrying  Mr.  Menken;  then  she  became  the  wife  of  Heenan, 
the  prize-fighter,  and  was  divorced;  later  she  married  my 
friend  Newell  and  was  separated  from  him;  and  ended, 
they  say,  by  fascinating  the  Emperor  Louis  Napoleon. 
I  had  a  great  admiration  for  Judge  Kent,  and  it  was 



because  he  was  one  of  the  Whig  presidential  electors  that 
I  cast  my  first  vote  for  Bell  and  Everett  in  i860.  I 
remember  that  Judge  Davies,  who  also  lived  at  Fishkill, 
said  to  Judge  Kent  at  this  time  that  he  was  sorry  that  he 
was  an  elector  on  that  ticket  and  Judge  Kent  replied: 
''Speaking  after  the  manner  of  men,  I  don't  care  a  damn !" 
The  Davies  pew  in  church  was  directly  in  front  of  the 
Kents',  the  two  judges  sitting  one  behind  the  other,  much 
to  the  annoyance  of  Judge  Kent,  who  remarked  that  it 
worried  him  because  Judge  Davies  made  the  responses  so 
slowly  that  in  the  Creed,  when  everybody  else  was  "ascend- 
ing into  heaven,"  Judge  Davies  was  still  "descending  into 

I  was  in  New  York  during  the  Draft  Riots  in  1863.  I 
came  up-town  on  a  stage  the  afternoon  of  the  first  day  they 
began.  As  the  stage  neared  Houston  Street  we  were  horri- 
fied to  see  a  colored  man  chased  by  a  great  crowd  of  people 
running  frantically  down  the  street.  He  caught  the  bus 
just  in  the  nick  of  time,  burst  open  the  door  and  flung  him- 
self in,  his  face  streaming  with  blood  and  his  clothes  half 
torn  off  his  back.  The  stage  drove  on  at  once  and  he  escaped. 
Colored  people  all  through  the  city  were  in  the  greatest 
danger.  Edward  Ketchum,  a  friend  of  mine  living  on  Madi- 
son Avenue,  had  a  colored  butler  in  his  house  who  had  been 
threatened,  and  the  Ketchums  were  afraid  that  some  of 
the  Irish,  who  were  the  chief  offenders,  would  attack  the 
house.  So  several  of  Ketchum's  friends,  myself  among  the 
number,  sat  up  all  night  watching,  armed  with  revolvers, 
but  nothing  happened.  The  Irish  got  up  this  riot.  They 
objected  violently  to  the  draft — they  don't  like  fighting 
as  much  as  they  think  they  do — and  insisted,  with  their 
usual  logic,  that  the  negroes  were  responsible  as  the  war 
was  being  fought  to  set  them  free. 

I  was  living  at  this  time  in  Thirty-third  Street  near 


NEW  YORK   WHEN    I   WAS   A   ^'OUNC    MAN 

Fifth  Avenue.  I  heard  that  the  Colored  Orphan  Asylum 
on  Fifth  Avenue  was  on  fire  and  hurried  up  there  to  see  if  I 
could  do  anything,  but  when  I  arrived  there  was  nothing  left 
but  smoking  ruins.  As  I  walked  back  down  Fifth  Avenue, 
near  the  corner  of  Twenty-ninth  Street  I  saw  a  mob  of 
toughs  who  had  burned  and  looted  a  house  near  by  and 
were  carrying  off  their  spoils;  a  ruffian  in  a  red  shirt,  open 
at  the  neck  and  smeared  with  blood,  had  a  rosewood  table 
as  his  prize,  and  another  of  the  gang  was  carrying  the  mari)Ie 
top  of  the  table  on  his  head.  A  friend  told  me  he  saw  the 
books  from  Mr.  Choate's  library  scattered  all  about  the 
streets.  Just  across  the  street  from  this  crowd  walked  a 
dozen  policemen.  As  they  got  directly  opposite  the  mob, 
they  suddenly  turned,  ran  across  the  Avenue,  each  police- 
man seized  a  rioter  by  his  collar  and  began  belaboring  him 
over  the  head  with  his  club.  In  a  moment  the  crowd  had 
abandoned  the  booty  and  before  you  could  say  Jack  Robin- 
son the  street  was  clear — I  never  saw  a  neater  piece  of  work. 
I  found  the  whole  block  front  on  Broadway  between  Twenty- 
eighth  and  Twenty-ninth  Streets  on  fire.  The  buildings 
were  two-story  wooden  affairs  and  the  rioters  had  broken 
in,  built  fires  on  the  floors,  and  burned  the  whole  block 

The  next  day  I  was  standing  on  the  corner  of  Park 
Place  and  Broadway,  watching  a  crowd  of  people  gathering 
in  front  of  the  Tribune  Building.  Park  Place  was  almost 
empty,  except  for  a  dray  waiting  at  the  corner  without  a 
driver,  a  whip  lying  on  the  floor  of  the  dray.  Suddenly 
the  crowd  burst  into  loud  shouting  and  a  negro  man  came 
flying  across  the  City  Hall  Park  with  a  crowd  of  about  a 
hundred  men — they  seemed  a  thousand — close  after  him. 
He  caught  sight  of  the  dray,  leaped  into  it,  snatched  up 
the  whip,  laid  it  furiously  across  the  horse's  back,  uttered 
a  wild  yell,  and  lashing  the  horse  into  a  gallop  outdistanced 



his  pursuers  and  disappeared  down  College  Place.  If  he 
had  been  caught  he  would  doubtless  have  been  strung  up 
to  a  lamp-post,  as  so  many  poor  negroes  were  in  those  ter- 
rible days. 

Any  one,  even  a  clergyman  or  doctor,  seen  with  a  negro 
was  in  danger.  They  tell  of  a  colored  man  trying  in  vain 
to  find  a  clergyman  who  would  bury  his  dead  child,  until 
some  one  said:  "There  is  a  little  parson  named  Dix  who 
isn't  afraid  of  anything,  you  might  try  him,"  and  Doctor 
Dix  came  up  to  the  scratch.  In  fact,  Doctor  Dix's  friends 
said  he  rather  enjoyed  driving  to  the  cemetery  with  the 
colored  family,  at  the  risk  of  his  life. 

All  law  and  order  were  abohshed — awful  crowds  of 
horrible-looking  men  thronged  the  streets — for  several 
days  the  city  was  in  a  state  of  anarchy  as  in  the  time  of 
the  French  Revolution.  All  the  militia  were  at  the  front 
and  no  troops  were  available,  but  at  last,  in  about  three 
days,  some  soldiers  came,  the  Seventh  Regiment  among 
them,  and  order  was  restored.  Doctor  Stuyvesant  Morris 
was  in  the  Seventh  at  that  time,  and  he  told  me  that  as 
they  marched  through  the  streets  they  were  sniped  at  from 
the  windows  and  brickbats  were  thrown  at  them;  it  w^as 
pretty  dangerous,  but  he  said  he  did  not  mind  the  danger 
so  much  as  a  large  rent  he  got  in  the  seat  of  his  trousers. 
Some  cavalrj^  also  appeared  and  tethered  their  horses  in 
Union  Square  amid  bales  of  hay  and  other  fodder  scat- 
tered over  the  ground,  until  it  quite  looked  hke  a  be- 
leaguered city. 

The  following  letter,  written  at  this  time  from  the  front 
to  Miss  Neilson,  is  curiously  interesting: 

"...  The  scarcity  of  news  has  left  me  no  alterna- 
tive but  to  wait  until  something  occurred  worthy  of  note. 



I  have  waited.  Something  has  occurred,  and  I  will  pro- 
ceed at  once  to  make  you  acquainted  with  the  main  facts 
in  the  case.  The  country  about  Columbus  does  not  at 
this  time  harbour  any  part  of  the  Rebel  Army,  but  is  in- 
fested by  gangs  of  'Cut  throat  Guerrillas,'  who  never  lose 
an  opportunity  of  plundering  and  murdering  all  who  fail 
in  their  path;  and  not  content  with  kiUing,  perform  all 
manner  of  Barbarities  upon  their  victims,  such  as  cutting 
off  hands  and  heads. 

"Not  being  in  favor  of  such  cruelties,  and  knowing 
that  if  we  submitted  to  them,  we  were  never  sure  of  our 
lives,  I  determined  to  pay  them  ofT  in  their  own  coin.  I 
am  not  naturally  a  'bloody-minded'  man,  but  I  think  that 
a  determined  course  of  action  often  saves  many  lives.  Find- 
ing that  one  of  the  most  notorious  leaders,  named  Forbes, 
had  been  bushwhacking  some  of  our  men,  I  determined 
to  make  an  example  of  him  which  his  brother  murderers 
would  not  soon  forget.  To  make  a  short  story,  I  sought 
Forbes,  found  him,  put  a  bullet  through  his  skull,  and 
then !  !  !  now  don't  faint,  cut  his  head  off! ! !  and  carried  it 
back  to  Cohimbus,  where  I  was  hailed  with  joy  for  deliver- 
ing the  Country  of  such  a  pest.  The  General  commanding 
thanked  me,  and  all  our  officers  likewise,  and  all  agreed 
if  others  had  followed  my  example,  bushwhacking  had 
ceased  long  ago.  I  am  to  have  my  vignette  taken  in  my 
Butternut  dress  which  I  use  in  scouting,  with  some  of  my 
Blood  hounds,  and  will  send  you  one." 

I  was  still  living  in  Thirty-third  Street  when  I  heard 
very  early  one  morning  the  dreadful  news  of  Lincohi's  as- 
sassination. One  could  hardly  realize  it  was  true  until 
one  went  out  into  the  street  and  black  began  to  grow  upon 
the  houses — there  did  not  seem  to  be  one  that  was  not 



shrouded  in  mourning.  Indeed  such  Copperheads  as  re- 
fused to  display  any  signs  of  grief  were  in  danger  of  having 
their  windows  broken.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it — the 
sorrow  was  almos-t  universal,  the  feeling  bitter  and  intense. 
I  heard  of  an  old  farmer  driving  back  from  Newburgh, 
meeting  a  Copperhead,  and  telling  him  that  Lincoln  had 
been  killed.  The  traitor  said,  ''I'm  glad  of  it,"  where- 
upon the  old  farmer  leaped  out  of  his  wagon,  attacked  the 
other  man,  and  nearly  killed  him.  But  this  sort  of  thing 
was  the  exception.  People  who  had  hated  Lincoln  seemed 
all  at  once  to  come  to  their  senses  and  realize  what  manner 
of  man  it  was  that  they  had  been  vilifying.  It  is  almost 
impossible  at  the  present  time  to  believe  the  kind  of  things 
that  Lincoln's  enemies  used  to  say  about  him,  even  more 
absurd  than  the  things  Wilson's  enemies  say  to-day.  A 
specimen  is  a  paragraph  in  an  old  letter  of  1861 — "What 
can  be  said  for  Lincoln  now,  after  his  flight  by  night  dis- 
guised in  a  Scotch  cap,  to  escape  assassination  at  Balti- 
more, on  the  faith  of  that  old  driveller  Scott?"  (How  funny 
Lincoln  would  have  looked  in  a  Scotch  cap,  if  this  tale  had 
been  true !)  I  am  thankful  to  say  that  I  have  had  the  sense 
always  to  admire  both  Lincoln  and  Wilson,  though  I  failed 
to  vote  for  Lincoln  the  first  time — a  lifelong  regret. 

I  suppose  it  is  pretty  much  forgotten  that  President 
Andrew  Jackson  once  had  an  attempt  made  on  his  life. 
Mr.  Murray,  my  father's  friend  of  whom  I  have  spoken 
in  a  previous  chapter,  happened  to  be  in  Washington  soon 
after  and  was  told  all  about  it.  It  seems  the  President 
was  attending  the  funeral  of  a  member  of  Congress  when 
an  insane  man  only  a  few  feet  away  fired  at  him  twice,  using 
two  pistols,  as  he  stood  under  the  portico  of  the  Capitol. 
But  each  time  the  pistol  missed  fire.  After  the  man  had 
been  secured,  the  pistols  were  carefully  examined — both 



were  new  and  both  were  properly  loaded  with  ball  and 
powder,  yet  both  caps  had  been  exploded  without  igniting 
the  charge!  The  bystanders  told  Mr.  Murray  that  the  old 
soldier  never  flinched  but  went  straight  for  the  assassin 
with  a  stout  stick  he  always  carried,  and  would  doubtless 
have  finished  him  off  single-handed  if  he  had  been  alone. 

In  1864  I  bought  a  thoroughbred  mare  that  I  named 
Lucile,  as  Owen  Meredith's  poem  was  then  my  favorite. 
I  paid  seven  hundred  dollars  for  her,  which  was  a  great 
price  for  me,  in  fact  the  most  I  ever  paid  for  a  horse;  but 
she  was  a  beautiful  mare,  although  scarcely  broken.  I 
took  her  to  Tallman's  stable,  corner  of  Broadway  and 
Thirty-eighth  Street,  where  I  kept  her  for  two  years  and 
completed  her  education  by  riding  her  out  over  the  pave- 
ments to  Central  Park  and  exercising  and  training  her  there 
until  I  got  her  thoroughly  broken  to  the  saddle.  But  she 
was  a  hard  one  to  manage,  and  frequently  ran  away  with 
me  in  the  park.  One  day  she  started  near  the  reservoir 
and  ran  down  near  the  pond  where  they  used  to  keep  swans; 
there  is  a  rather  sharp  turn  there  and  she  was  going  so  fast 
that  I  could  not  bring  her  round  the  turn,  so  I  kept  straight 
on  over  the  remains  of  a  wire  fence  lying  coiled  up  in  the 
bushes,  in  which  she  caught  her  feet  and  dragged  the  whole 
thing  out  into  the  driving  road,  but  she  did  not  get  me  off. 
She  was  a  bay,  sixteen  hands  high  and  beautifully  made, 
one  of  the  handsomest  horses  I  have  ever  seen.  I  sold  her 
after  two  years  for  five  hundred  dollars  to  a  wine  merchant, 
who  was  so  pleased  at  getting  her  that  he  gave  John,  my 
groom  at  Tallman's,  a  box  of  wine  as  a  present.  He  had 
bought  her  for  his  son,  who  could  not  ride  her  however, 
and  I  believe  was  thrown.  But  she  never  got  me  off  her 
back  through  all  my  experience  with  her,  though  I  rode 
her  nearly  every  day  for  two  years. 



Freelance  was  another  horse  of  whom  I  think  with  af- 
fection. He  was  a  thoroughbred  two-year-old,  by  im- 
ported Babrownie,  that  I  bought  at  auction  at  Jerome 
Park  for  three  hundred  dollars.  I  did  not  attempt  to  ride 
him  until  he  was  three,  when  I  took  him  to  TaHman's  stable, 
where  they  had  a  back  lot  for  exercising.  I  don't  know 
whether  he  had  been  ridden  before  or  not,  but  he  gave  no 
evidence  of  having  been  broken  at  all  and  would  buck- 
jump  all  over  the  lot,  but  in  a  little  while  he  sobered  down 
and  I  got  him  perfectly  broken.  I  taught  him  to  jump, 
and  he  jumped  well  and  he  was  very  fast.  I  rode  him  at 
Jerome  Park  in  several  races,  carrying  one  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds — these  were  called  'Svelter  weights."  When 
I  went  to  Rome  I  had  to  dispose  of  him,  so  I  left  him  w^ith 
Will  Crosby  to  sell  for  me  and  he  sold  him  to  John  Minton 
for  two  hundred  dollars;  he  was  then  five  years  old,  fifteen 
hands  high,  and  a  perfect  saddle-horse  to  my  taste. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  Fish  celebrated  their  Golden 
Wedding,  December  15,  1886,  and  had  a  reception  in  their 
house  on  Stuyvesant  Square.  I  remember  at  this  recep- 
tion I  met  Gouverneur  Morris,  of  Morrisania — not  the 
young  writer  of  that  name  but  his  grandfather — and  he 
told  me  a  characteristic  anecdote  of  Doctor  Richard  Morris 
of  Westchester,  who  was  fond  of  practical  jokes.  Doctor 
Morris  met  Gouverneur  and  asked  him  if  he  w^ould  like 
a  quarter  of  beef;  of  course  he  said  he  would.  "Well  then," 
said  Doctor  Morris,  "drive  out  to  my  place  to-morrow  and 
I'll  give  you  one."  So  the  next  day  Gouverneur  appeared 
at  the  Morris  house  and  "Uncle  Richard"  took  him  out 
into  a  field  and  pointing  to  a  dead  cow  lying  there  said: 
"There's  your  quarter  of  beef,  she  died  yesterday,  help 




"Uncle  Richard"  was  a  splendid  old  gentleman,  a  good 
sport.  He  always  kept  a  barrel  of  whiskey  in  the  cellar, 
and  he  had  a  fine  flock  of  game-cocks  as  well  as  trotting 
horses  and  bull-terriers.  The  doctor  owned  a  celebrated 
trotting  mare  Stella,  whose  grave  in  Westchester  is  still 
marked  with  a  stone  and  whose  portrait  used  to  be  well 
known  in  a  colored  engraving  published  by  Currier  of  Nas- 
sau Street,  of  "Stella  and  Whalebone,"  a  matched  pair 
of  trotters,  making  record  time.  He  had  a  famous  bull- 
terrier  named  Terror,  who  once  dashed  at  me  from  under 
his  chair,  as  I  was  crossing  the  lawn  to  speak  to  the  doctor, 
and  fastened  his  fangs  in  my  leg;  luckily  he  only  succeeded 
in  tearing  a  long  strip  in  my  new  gray  trousers.  It  was 
a  little  embarrassing,  as  I  had  only  come  for  a  morning  call, 
but  one  of  the  girls  offered  to  mend  it  for  me,  so  I  borrowed 
a  pair  of  nether  garments  from  one  of  her  brothers,  and 
she  very  deftly  mended  the  rent  so  that  it  could  hardly 
be  seen. 

When  the  doctor  and  his  brothers,  Gus  Van  Cortlandt 
and  Robert,  were  just  approaching  manhood,  they  went 
abroad  together,  and  went  to  Paris  and  were  presented  at 
court.  All  three  of  them  were  very  handsome,  and  greatly 
resembled  the  royal  family,  so  much  so  that  this  likeness 
to  royalty  was  much  remarked.  The  King  said  jokingly 
to  one  of  them  apropos  of  this  likeness,  "Was  your  mother 
ever  in  Paris?"  but  the  young  man  answered  naively,  "No, 
sire,  but  my  father  was." 

Young  Nicholas  Morris,  one  of  Doctor  Morris's  sons — 
always  called  "Cola" — was  lost  at  sea.  He  was  in  the  navy 
and  went  on  a  voyage  to  the  South,  whence  he  never  re- 
turned. His  ship,  the  man-of-war  A /6am-,  was  never  heard 
of  again.     Curiously  enough,  the  last  port  she  touched  at 



was  Pensacola — "think  of  Cola!"  For  many,  many  years 
**Aunt  Lillie"  thought  that  every  knock  at  the  door  or 
foot  on  the  stair  was  her  son  come  home. 

Pelham,  Doctor  Morris's  place  in  Westchester,  was  re- 
nowned for  its  hospitahty.  I  remember  very  well  the  first 
time  I  went  to  Pelham.  I  was  living  at  44  Union  Square 
when  I  was  asked  up  there  to  spend  a  week-end.  I  remember 
I  hesitated  on  Friday  about  going,  as  I  did  not  feel  much 
Hke  it,  but  a  lady  who  was  staying  in  the  same  house  said 
to  me,  "You'd  better  go,  you  may  meet  some  one  you  like." 
Ladies  are  apt  to  be  match-makers  even  when  they  are 
speculating  with  the  unknown  and,  sure  enough,  I  met 
my  future  wife  there.  Miss  Helen  Neilson,  whom  I  had 
never  seen  before.  She  and  her  sister  Julia  were  staying 
at  Pelham,  and  also  Miss  Pauline  SpofFard,  Miss  Molly 
Williamson,  Harry  Redmond,  and  Robert  Barry.  Besides 
Stuyve  and  his  three  sisters,  Lou  Morris  was  there,  home 
on  furlough.  They  ahvays  had  a  house  party  when  he  came 
home.  The  next  day  was  Sunday  and  we  all  went  to  church 
at  St.  Peter's,  Westchester.  Coming  out  of  church  I  spoke 
to  my  future  wife  for  the  first  time — I  was  never  introduced 
to  her.  It  was  at  the  old  Morris  place  at  Morrisania  that 
my  father  met  my  mother  for  the  first  time,  and  it  was 
during  this  same  visit  at  Pelham  that  Julia  Neilson  met 
Robert  Barry  whom  she  afterward  married.  So  you  see 
the  Morrises  have  played  quite  a  part  in  our  lives !  In  the 
evenings  at  the  Morrises'  we  used  to  play  round  games,  and 
on  Sunday  evenings  we  all  said  the  catechism,  taking  the 
questions  in  turn.  Some  of  us  knew  it  all  except  "our  duty 
to  our  neighbor."  (I  remember  how  hard  it  was  when  my 
mother  gave  me  the  catechism  to  learn  on  hot  Sunday  after- 
noons, and  I  don't  think  I  ever  mastered  the  latter  part 



of  it,  particularly  "What  desirest  thou?"— this  was  a 

I  was  married  to  Helen  Neilson  on  the  sixth  of  Decem- 
ber, 1866,  at  her  mother's  house  on  Stuyvcsant  Square, 
by  the  Reverend  Doctor  John  Cotton  Smith  of  the  Church 
of  the  Ascension. 

And  we  celebrated  our  Golden  Wedding  on  December 
6,  19 16,  at  58  West  Tenth  Street. 




"Rome,  that  reformed  the  world,  accustomed  was 
Two  suns  to  have,  which  one  road  and  the  other. 
Of  God  and  of  the  world,  made  manifest. 
One  has  the  other  quenched,  and  to  the  crosier 
The  sword  is  joined." 

— Dante. 

My  first  sight  of  Rome  was  on  the  twenty-seventh  of 
January,  1859.  Happily  there  was  no  railway  in  those 
days,  so  the  diligence  took  me  from  Civita  Vecchia  to  Rome 
across  the  Campagna.  I  remember  seeing  a  lot  of  French 
soldiers  drilhng  on  the  beach  at  Civita  Vecchia — Italy  and 
France  went  to  war  with  Austria  that  following  summer. 

I  had  often  heard  of  the  ** desolate"  Campagna,  and 
expected  to  see  an  arid  waste,  but  I  soon  changed  my  mind, 
and  from  that  day,  throughout  a  long  after-experience,  I 
never  ceased  to  love  and  enjoy  its  endless  charm.  That 
first  morning  was  one  to  be  remembered,  delicious  as  only 
an  Italian  winter's  day  can  be;  under  a  soft  haze  the  land- 
scape melted  away  in  almost  imperceptible  folds  and  tones, 
in  varied  gradations  and  shades  of  opalescent  and  silvery 
color,  touched  here  and  there  by  a  line  of  the  first  fresh 
green  of  the  wheat-fields,  or  a  faint  glistening  spot  of  water. 
All  was  remote  and  solemn.  In  the  distance,  the  turrets 
of  an  old  castle  of  Julius  the  Second  peered  through  shadowy 
groves  of  stone-pines  above  vast  tan-colored  marshes;  the 
fields  we  passed  through  were  scattered  with  grass-grown 
mounds,  the  remains  of  long-forgotten  cities  once  great 
and  gay — now  dwindled  to  low  hills,  where  scattered  flocks 



of  sheep,  guarded  by  great  dogs  and  shepherds  leaning  on 
their  staves,  were  silhouetted  against  the  soft  bhie-gray 
sky.  An  almost  deserted  land,  a  great  silence  enxeloping 
it,  only  broken  now  and  then  by  the  long-drawn-out  and 
monotonous  song  of  some  passing  driver  of  a  wine-cart, 
in  a  conical  hat  and  red  waistcoat,  his  little  horse  decked 
with  colored  ribbons  and  pheasants'  feathers,  tinkling  bells 
and  profuse  brass  mountings,  all  to  keep  off  the  assaults 
of  the  evil  eye;  or  by  the  hoarse  cries  of  a  wild  rider  in  sheep- 
skin breeches,  carrying  a  long  iron-pointed  goad,  where- 
with to  urge  his  train  of  black,  sad-eyed  bufTalo,  drawing 
a  huge  block  of  white  marble,  perhaps  for  some  sculptor 
in  Rome. 

The  Campagna  was  then  owned  by  a  few  great  nobles 
and  their  vast  estates  were  diversified  by  many  bits  of 
ancient  ruins,  but  nothing  modern — no  villages  and  but 
few  houses.  An  occasional  wine-shop  displayed  its  famihar 
bush  above  the  door,  showing  that  wine  was  to  be  had  with- 
in, and  here  and  there  a  group  of  farm  buildings  huddled 
around  a  tall  mediaeval  tower,  in  the  distance  the  long  gray 
broken  lines  of  the  old  Roman  aqueducts  marched  across 
the  plain. 

So  our  day  passed.  Suddenly  our  vetturino,  with  a 
crack  of  his  whip,  shouted  "Ecco  Roma  !"  and  we  saw  shin- 
ing in  the  extreme  distance,  like  a  great  pearl,  as  Story 
calls  it,  that  grew  and  grew,  the  splendid  dome  of  St.  Peter's  I 
And  it  was  a  dramatic  moment  when  our  horses  dashed 
through  a  tall  archway  directly  from  the  quiet  Campagna 
into  the  Square  of  San  Pietro,  and  there  was  the  honcy- 
colored  facade  of  Bramante's  basilica  embraced  by  its 
grand  colonnades,  and  the  Egyptian  obehsk  Hanked  by 
the  noble  fountains,  flinging  high  their  spray  that  drifted 
across  the  square  in  silvery  clouds. 



Rome  was  a  very  different  place  then  from  what  it  is 
now.  Then  the  moss  and  dust  of  ages  lay  thick  over  every- 
thing; nothing  had  been  repaired  for  a  thousand  years. 
The  interior  of  the  Coliseum  was  then  a  green  law^n.  It 
had  been  consecrated  as  a  church,  and  stations  of  the  cross 
stood  around  its  outer  edge;  the  walls  w-ere  bright  with 
wallflowers  and  many  low-grow^ing  plants,  and  with  all  sorts 
of  shrubs  and  traihng  ivy — so  many  that  a  book  has  been 
written  on  the  flora  of  the  Coliseum.  There  had  been  but 
little  excavation  in  the  Forum,  which  was  mostly  covered, 
many  feet  deep,  with  the  accumulated  soil  of  ages.  The 
ivy-clad  \\alls  of  the  palace  of  the  Csesars  rose  at  the  right, 
and  long  rows  of  faflen  porphyry  and  granite  columns  from 
some  ruined  temple  lay  along  its  sides.  The  baths  of  Car- 
acalla  had  been  blown  up  at  some  remote  time,  and  were 
now  huge  masses  of  ruin  overgrown  with  vines  and  flowers, 
most  beautiful  and  picturesque. 

In  1869  when  I  again  saw  Rome  it  was  still  almost  un- 
changed, but  when  the  Italians  took  possession  in  1870 
they  dug  away  the  soil  of  the  Coliseum,  stripped  all  the 
vines  and  flowers  from  the  ruins  and  cleaned  it  up,  and 
archaeologists  have  been  busy  ever  since  removing  the  sur- 
face of  the  Forum  in  order  to  expose  the  pavement.  The 
beautiful  masses  of  ruin  covered  w^ith  verdure  were  re- 
moved from  the  floor  of  the  baths  of  Caracalla,  and  the 
whole  interior  is  now  bare  and  uninviting  and  used  as  a 
museum  of  antiquities.  AH  this  is  doubtless  more  interest- 
ing to  the  antiquarian,  but  far  less  pleasing  to  the  artist 
and  the  man  of  taste. 

I  found  most  of  the  little  common  things  of  Rome  un- 
changed in  ten  years,  when  in  1869  I  saw  it  again.  Naz- 
zarri  still  sold  his  confections  on  the  corner  of  the  Piazza 
di  Spagna,  with  the  bookshop  of  Spithoever  opposite;  there 



too  was  the  American  banking  house  of  Maquay,  Hooker, 
and  Company,  the  latter  name  softened  to  "Signor  Okeri" 
by  the  Italians;  Keats's  house  at  the  corner  of  the  Spanish 
Steps  looked  just  the  same,  and  on  the  steps  lounged,  as 
of  yore,  the  gayly  dressed  models  waiting  for  custom,  and 
apparently  the  very  same  beggars  and  cab-drivers  tormented 
the  passers-by.  The  same  little  antiquity  dealer,  rather 
more  mouldy  than  before,  displayed  his  wares  in  the  Via 
Condotti,  opposite  the  historic  Cade  Greco.  In  the  centre 
of  the  square  was  the  same  old  fruit-stand  and  the  foun- 
tain with  its  flock  of  glass  ducks  sailing  on  the  little  lake — 
all  was  unchanged. 

I  was  appointed  Consul  to  the  Papal  States  in  March, 
1869,  ^^^  with  my  family  left  New  York  in  April  for  Rome; 
but  I  was  given  a  summer's  leave  of  absence  before  settling 
down  there,  because  the  State  Department  at  Washington 
considered  the  climate  of  Rome  unhealthy  during  the  sum- 
mer, an  impression  which  I  never  took  any  pains  to  re- 
move. So  during  the  four  years  of  my  residence  in  Rome 
I  had  leave  of  absence  in  the  summers,  which  we  spent  in 
Switzerland,  the  Austrian  Tyrol,  the  Italian  lakes,  and 
Venice.  Considering  that  we  travelled  with  nurses  and 
children,  we  were  rather  adventurous.  In  those  days  there 
was  no  funicular  to  the  hotel  on  Monte  Generoso  at  Lugano, 
and  I  remember  our  party  made  an  amusing  caravan,  each 
trunk  on  a  separate  mule,  and  the  nurse  on  horseback  carry- 
ing the  baby  in  her  arms. 

Before  going  to  Rome  I  wrote  to  my  vice-consul,  Pietro 
Calvi — whom  I  had  inherited  from  my  predecessor  Mr. 
Cushman,  the  nephew  of  Charlotte  Cushman,  the  great 
actress — to  engage  an  apartment  and  a  consular  ofiicc  for 
me,  but  when  I  reached  Rome,  I  found  both  unsatisfac- 
tory.    The  apartment  was  at  68  Via  Capo  le  Case,  a  nice 



situation,  but  it  had  no  other  recommendation — any  one 
who  is  famihar  with  Roman  furnished  apartments  will 
know  just  what  it  w^as  like.  Our  padrone  had  ransacked 
the  auction-rooms  for  bits  of  broken-down  furniture,  faded 
gaudy  carpets  and  curtains,  chairs  and  tables  with  glued- 
on  legs  that  dropped  off  when  you  touched  them,  and  which 
you  were  obliged  to  pay  for.  This  was  soon  remedied  when 
we  began  to  collect  really  good  old  furniture,  but  the  con- 
sular office  looked  like  an  art  gallery  crammed  with  hideous 
copies  of  the  old  masters,  and  the  stairway  was  lined  with 
them,  my  landlord  calmly  informing  me  that  they  were 
all  for  sale  and  that  I  would  probably  like  to  dispose  of 
them  to  my  countrymen,  but  to  his  despair  I  promptly 
ordered  them  all  away. 

The  next  year  we  moved  to  the  old  Palazzo  Zuccari, 
number  64  Via  Sistina,  which  was  built  by  the  brothers 
Zuccaro,  well-known  artists  of  the  sixteenth  century.  It 
stood  next  to  the  Tempietto  near  the  top  of  the  Spanish 
Steps,  and  was  a  picturesque  old  palace,  built  of  a  pale  red- 
dish brick,  originally  covered  wath  w^hite  stucco  which  had 
partly  fallen  away;  and  as  it  had  not  been  painted  or  re- 
paired since  it  was  built,  the  whole  had  mellowed  to  a  beau- 
tiful tint  of  delicate  light  pinkish-gray,  and  from  the  numer- 
ous crevices  of  the  w^alls  sprang  various  plants,  tufts  of 
wallflowers  and  little  shrubs.  The  front  door  and  entrance 
were  on  the  Via  Sistina  and  the  house  ran  through  the  block, 
so  that  the  real  front  was  on  the  Via  Gregoriana.  Our 
padrone  was  named  Zuccaro,  a  descendant  of  one  of  the 
painters,  a  shrinking  little  man  w^ho  seldom  appeared  and 
lived  modestly  in  the  basement.  The  Honorable  Mrs. 
Bruce,  lady-in-waiting  to  Queen  Victoria,  lived  on  the  second 
floor  and  our  apartment  was  on  the  third.  The  arched 
hall  and  winding  stairway  were  broad  and  well  lighted 
and  frescoed  all  the  way  up  by  the  Zuccari  in  the  Raphael- 



esque  manner.  Against  these  oFd  and  faded  frescoes  a  slight 
green  lattice  had  been  placed  and  over  it  trailed  green  cac- 
tus, covered  with  scarlet  blossoms  tliat  bloomed  the  winter 

It  was  a  delightful  apartment.  To  Ik-  sure,  we  had 
only  one  servants'  room;  and  all  the  water  in  the  house 
had  to  be  carried  to  the  second  floor  from  a  fountain  in 
the  courtyard,  but  we  didn't  mind  that.  It  was  easy  enough 
to  get  a  man  to  do  that  or  anything  else  for  one  in  Rome. 
If  we  needed  a  servant  it  was  only  necessary  to  mention 
it  to  a  friend  and  several  would  immediately  appear,  only 
too  glad  to  come  for  whatever  wages  we  chose  to  gK-e. 

Roman  servants  are  very  affectionate,  and  become 
attached  to  a  family  in  a  wonderfully  short  time.  I  re- 
member returning  to  Rome,  after  a  trip  to  Naples  during 
the  great  eruption  of  Vesuvius,  and  being  greeted  with 
almost  frantic  joy  by  the  servants,  who  rushed  out  into 
the  street  and  surrounded  our  carriage,  and  began  kissing 
our  hands  and  arms,  and  anything  they  could  reach.  The 
accounts  of  the  loss  of  life  in  the  eruption  had  alarmed  them. 
The  cook,  whom  we  hardly  knew  by  sight,  was  in  floods  of 

From  our  balcony  we  looked  over  the  w  hole  of  the  city, 
spread  out  like  a  map.  It  was  one  of  the  finest  \  lews  in 
Rome  and  wonderful  at  sunset.  There  was  the  yellow 
Tiber  winding  through  the  city,  here  the  Castle  of  St.  An- 
gelo  and  St.  Peter's  dome;  while  far  beyond  kiy  the  dch"- 
cately  colored  Campagna  melting  into  the  distant  moun- 
tains. Our  palazzo  was  such  a  quaint  old  place  that  I  used 
to  remark  that  the  flights  of  rooks  liked  to  settle  there, 
when  they  flew  up  from  the  old  half-ruined  church-tower 
below,  and  chatter  together  for  a  while,  before  they  went 
to  roost  in  the  trees  of  the  Villa  Ludovisi. 

Our   drawing-room  was   called   the   Camera   Giuseppe, 



because  its  walls  were  frescoed  with  scenes  from  the  life  of 
Joseph,  by  Von  Hoffman,  a  pupil  of  Overbeck — I  believe 
these  pictures  have  since  been  removed  and  sent  to  Munich. 
One  of  them,  a  desert  scene  where  Joseph  was  being  sold 
by  his  brethren,  with  a  train  of  camels  in  the  foreground, 
was  really  fine.  They  were  mentioned  in  the  guide-books 
and  visitors  often  came  to  see  them.  I  was  once  showing 
them  to  a  party  of  Americans  and  one  of  them,  a  lady, 
looked  at  the  picture  of  Joseph  and  Potiphar's  wife,  mod- 
estly placed  over  a  door  where  it  would  attract  the  least 
attention,  and  remarked  naively: 

"I  always  thought  that  Joseph  was  a  great  fool." 

Over  the  front  door  of  the  palace  was  a  shield  bearing 
the  arms  of  the  United  States,  and  the  rooms  of  the  con- 
sulate adjoined  our  apartment.  As  there  was  then  no  rep- 
resentative of  the  American  Government  in  Rome  except 
myself,  I  had  charge  of  the  Legation  and  its  archives.  A 
fine  library  belonged  to  the  Legation,  so  that  the  large  room 
of  my  office  was  fined  with  books,  and  this  gave  it  a  fiterary 
flavor.  Calvi,  my  vice-consul,  was  a  Roman  lawyer;  he 
was  also  a  poet  and  pubfished  his  verses ;  and  he  had  prac- 
tised in  the  Roman  courts,  where  all  the  pleadings  were 
then  in  Latin,  so  he  spoke  and  wrote  Latin  fluently  and 
astonished  the  Romish  ecclesiastics,  who  often  came  to 
the  office  to  execute  documents,  by  his  rapid  writing  in 
Latin.  He  spoke  Engfish  well  but  sometimes  turned  curious 
sentences.  Once  when  I  was  away  in  the  summer,  he  wrote 
me  of  the  death  of  a  near  relative,  at  the  same  time  dilating 
on  the  extreme  heat,  and  remarked: 

"Heat  and  affliction  are  very  corroding  virtues,  I  ex- 
perience both  in  the  highest  degree." 

Another  time  he  wrote  to  me,  after  I  had  come  back 
to  America,  that  he  hoped  when  I  saw  Mr.  Nevin,  the  rec- 



tor  of  the  American  Church,  his  presence  would  "awake 
in  me  all  Roman  feelings,"  and  added: 

"The  American  Church  in  the  Via  Nazionale  is  the  great 
religious  event  of  Rome.  The  Union  Church,  patronized 
by  Mrs.  Gould,  and  the  South  Baptist  Convention  arc 
making  strong  efforts,  but  they  all  feed  stomachi  coi  mac- 
cheroni,  instead  of  souls  with  Gospel." 

Unsolicited  by  me,  the  government  supplied  me  witli 
a  consular  clerk,  Richard  H.  Savage,  who  had  lately  grad- 
uated with  distinction  from  West  Point,  but  who  because 
of  failing  health  had  left  the  army  and  come  to  Rome.  He 
wrote  French  with  perfect  accuracy,  but  spoke  it  with  a 
vile  accent,  and  was  not  much  use  to  me,  as  Calvi  did  all 
my  extra  work.  In  a  few  months  he  tired  of  the  job  and 
went  off  to  Egypt,  ostensibly  to  join  the  Khedive's  army, 
but  failing  in  this  returned  to  Rome  for  a  little  while  and 
then  drifted  away  and  I  never  saw  him  again.  He  was  a 
good  recounter  of  adventures  in  California,  and  was  after- 
ward author  of  several  books,  among  them  "My  Oflicial 
Wife."     He  has  been  dead  for  several  years. 

On  my  way  to  Rome  in  October,  1869,  I  happened  to 
be  stopping  in  Bologna  at  the  Hotel  Brun.  I  was  sitting 
in  the  reading-room  and  near  me  was  a  group  of  Amer- 
icans discussing  American  consuls  in  Europe,  much  to 
their  disadvantage.     Finally  one  of  them  remarked: 

"What  can  you  expect  when  they  appoint  such  a  per- 
son as  they  have  in  Rome  now!  ^'ou  would  think  a  man 
like  Secretary  Hamilton  Fish  might  at  least  select  a  gentle- 
man— this  Armstrong,  who  is  at  Rome,  is  a  sort  of  a  horse- 
jockey — rides  in  public  races  at  Jerome  Park  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing— I  call  it  downright  disgraceful !  What  they 
ought  to  have  in  Rome  is  some  one  who  is  a  judge  of  art 
and  literature,  not  a  sporting  man,"  etc.,  etc. 



Later  I  met  the  speaker  and  found  him  to  be  a  very 
nice  fellow,  and  got  to  know  him  well;  but  I  never  referred 
to  this  conversation  and  only  trust  that  he  revised  his  first 
opinion  of  me — he  was  a  Mr.  Stokes  Boyd,  of  Philadelphia. 

It  was  part  of  my  duty  as  consul  in  Rome  to  seal  the 
cofFms  of  Americans  who  died  there,  for  the  city  govern- 
ment would  not  allow  them  to  be  removed  until  they  were 
sealed,  and  incidentally  I  learned  what  exorbitant  charges 
were  made  to  families  after  a  death.  It  was  very  expensive 
to  die  in  Rome,  for  if  any  one  happened  to  end  his  days  in 
a  pension  or  hotel  all  the  rooms  had  to  be  papered,  painted, 
and  refurnished  at  the  expense  of  the  family.  The  bankers 
also  had  understandings  with  the  undertakers  and  did  not 
spare  their  charges,  and  they  usually  had  an  assistant  whose 
special  duty  was  attending  to  funerals.  One  of  them  had 
a  ghoul-hke  old  man,  named  Ercole,  who  was  sometimes 
invited  to  functions  other  than  funerals.  On  one  of  these 
occasions,  seeing  him  in  the  distance  with  his  arms  some- 
what extended  and  with  a  calculating  expression  in  his 
eye,  Fred  Crowninshield  said: 

"See  old  Ercole  over  there,  taking  time  by  the  fore- 
lock and  measuring  that  man  for  his  cofFm!" 

American  consuls  are  supposed  to  attend  to  all  sorts 
of  business  for  their  countrymen,  whose  requests  are  often 
unusual  and  amusing.  Among  others,  I  had  a  letter  from 
a  lady  who  asked  me  if  I  could  find  and  send  her  a  pair 
of  rubbers  that  she  had  left  in  the  American  church  the 
winter  before;  strange  to  say  they  were  found  and  forwarded 
to  her,  by  Ziegler  our  faithful  sexton,  who  was  equal  to 
almost  any  emergency.  I  once  got  a  letter  of  eighteen  pages 
from  a  crazy  man,  and  another  from  a  collector  of  postage 
stamps  in  Ohio,  asking  me  to  send  him  Roman  stamps. 
Another  time  the  police  sent  to  me  to  admonish  an  Amer- 



ican,  who  was  leading  a  dissipated  life  and  wasting  his 
money;  and  I  remember  being  appealed  to  by  some  ladies 
w^ho  had  been  missing  things  from  their  ajDurtment  for  some 
time,  and  at  last  noticed  a  trap-door  in  tlu-  roof  through 
which  they  found  their  landlady  was  in  the  liabil  of  com- 
ing down  at  night  and  walking  off  with  anything  she  hap- 
pened to  fancy. 

During  my  residence  in  Rome  I  introduced  several 
hundred  Americans  to  His  Holiness,  Pio  Nono.  These 
Papal  receptions  were  frequent.  The  visitor's  name  had 
to  be  sent  in  a  w-eek  beforehand,  in  return  came  a  permit 
stating  when  the  applicant  should  appear,  and  I  sent  my 
vice-consul  to  present  him;  I  never  went  myself.  Al- 
though I  presented  so  many  Americans  to  the  Pope,  I  was 
never  actually  presented  to  Iiim  niyself.  I  had  an  appoint- 
ment for  a  private  interview,  but  at  the  last  moment  was 
ill  and  could  not  go,  so  I  put  it  off,  and  then  Rome  was 
taken  and  I  was  no  longer  consul  to  the  Papal  States,  so 
finally  I  never  went  at  all. 

I  frequently  saw  him  walking  on  the  Pincian  Hill.  He 
always  w^alked  in  a  hollow  square  formed  by  his  guard, 
followed  by  his  gorgeous  carriage.  All  the  people  fell  on 
their  knees  as  he  passed.  My  little  daughter  Margaret, 
about  three  years  old,  a  pretty  child  with  a  bright  color 
and  fair  hair,  was  walking  there  one  day  with  her  Itahan 
nurse,  who,  of  course,  went  down  on  her  knees  as  the  Pope 
passed;  but  little  Margaret,  when  she  saw  this  benevolent- 
looking,  handsome  old  man  in  his  beautiful  robes,  escaped 
from  her  nurse  and  ran  out  to  him  and  took  his  hand.  When 
he  caught  sight  of  the  httle  creature  close  beside  hmi  the 
kind  old  man  stooped  down  and  kissed  her  and  patted  her 
on  the  head,  remarking  "E  bella,  e  buona,  e  cara,"  and 
gave  her  his  blessing,  and  then  she  trotted  back  to  her  nurse, 



who  was  so  alarmed  at  her  audacity,  and  yet  so  overwhelmed 
by  pride  and  joy,  that  the  child  never  forgot  it.  A  favorite 
game  after  that  was  to  dress  up  in  a  paper  cocked  hat  and 
long  cloak  and  play  she  was  a  bishop. 

Pio  Nono  was  really  a  beautiful  man,  if  I  may  use  the 
term,  graceful  and  majestic  in  his  carriage,  with  a  very 
fair,  pink  and  white  complexion,  black  sparkling  eyes  and 
snowy-white,  abundant,  curling  hair.  He  did  not  look  at 
all  old,  in  spite  of  his  silvery  head,  which,  far  from  taking 
aw^ay  from  his  brilliant  look,  seemed  to  accentuate  it. 

The  popes  must  get  pretty  tired  of  functions.  On  Can- 
dlemas, Pio  Nono  was  carried  about  the  church  on  a  plat- 
form borne  on  men's  shoulders,  from  which  he  blessed  the 
people,  but  it  swayed  so  that  he  was  often  seasick  and  could 
not  have  enjoyed  it  as  much  as  did  his  faithful  subjects. 
Fortunately  he  was  able  to  leave  the  curing  of  diseased 
animals  to  St.  Anthony — on  the  seventeenth  of  January 
all  the  sick  cattle  and  broken-kneed  horses  in  Rome  were 
taken  to  the  church  of  St.  Anthony,  where  they  were 
sprinkled  with  holy  w^ater  by  the  priests  and  made  whole. 
Another  curious  ceremony  was  on  St.  Agnes'  Day,  when 
two  Iambs,  dressed  in  red  ribbons,  were  placed  on  the  altar 
of  her  church,  and  then  given  to  the  nuns  to  rear,  their 
wool,  when  they  were  shorn,  being  donated  to  the  Pope 
to  be  woven  into  a  pallium  for  a  bishop.  It  must  all  be  a 
survival  of  some  ceremony  of  the  Vestal  Virgins;  I  wonder 
if  it  is  still  kept  up.  In  Holy  Week  two  priests  in  lace  vest- 
ments appeared  in  our  house,  and  went  through  every  room, 
blessing  it  and  expecting  a  douceur  in  return.  Every  house 
in  Rome  used  to  be  blessed  in  this  way  once  a  year. 

From  a  very  good  place  in  St.  Peter's  I  saw  the  pro- 
cession at  the  opening  in  December,  1869,  of  the  Ecumenical 
Council,  which  declared  the  Infallibility  of  the  Pope.    Six 



hundred  bishops  and  cardinals  marching  along,  from  the 
Vatican  to  St.  Peter's,  all  gorgeously  dressed;  the  Eastern 
bishops  looking  more  like  Arab  chiefs  than  Christian  pnl- 
ates,  in  gowns  of  many  colors  carrying  tiaras  set  with  Jewels; 
the  Western  dignitaries  in  purple  and  lace,  with  w  hite-and- 
gold  vestments,  and  each  with  his  silk  mitre  in  his  hand; 
the  Pope  bringing  up  the  rear.  They  were  escorted  by  a 
French  regiment,  the  Papal  Zouaves,  and  the  Swiss  Guard, 
the  latter  in  brilliant  steel  hchnets  and  cuirasses,  and  knee- 
breeches  of  red,  yellow  and  black  stripes.  After  the  open- 
ing ceremonies  the  doors  were  closed  to  the  public.  The 
council  dragged  on  for  months,  several  of  the  old  bishops 
dying  before  it  was  over,  for  many  of  the  clergy  were  op- 
posed to  the  doctrine  of  infalhbility.  There  was  a  saying 
that  ''the  bishops  came  to  Rome  shepherds  and  went  home 
sheep."  But  in  the  end  the  Pope  won  out— it  is  strange 
that  he  should  have  been  given  this  vast  increase  in  spiritual 
power  just  at  the  time  that  he  was  to  lose  the  temporal. 

In  my  intercourse  with  the  Vatican,  which  was  con- 
siderable, I  often  had  private  interviews  with  Cardinal 
Antonelli,  who  generally  received  me  alone  in  the  evening 
in  a  private  room.  He  was  always  polite  and  quite  willing 
to  talk  and  be  obliging,  when  he  could  conveniently  do 
so.  He  was  very  shrewd-looking,  with  piercing  black  eyes 
and  a  pale  face,  and  usually  sat  behind  a  desk,  with  his 
head  bowed  and  resting  on  one  hand,  looking  at  one  from 
under  his  black  eyebrows  in  a  sort  of  catlike  and  watchful 
way  that  gave  him  a  rather  sinister  look.  At  the  time  of 
the  opening  of  the  Ecumenical  Council,  I  thought  that  as 
I  had  charge  of  the  American  Legation,  and  there  was  no 
American  diplomat  at  Rome,  the  cardinal  might  assume 
that  I  held  a  quasi-diplomatic  position  and  give  mc  a  seat 
in  the  council;    but  he  very  politely  but  firmly  declined, 



with  many  apologies,  saying  that  none  but  actual  diplomatic 
representatives  could  be  so  honored.  He  wrote  me  many 
long  letters  in  his  own  handwriting,  mostly  about  trifling 
things.  I  think  that  he  was  fond  of  letter-writing;  indeed, 
they  say  that  he  was  one  of  the  most  profuse  letter-writers 
in  Europe,  and  consequently  his  autographs,  of  which  I 
have  kept  several,  are  not  as  valuable  as  ordinarily  would 
be  those  of  so  distinguished  a  man. 

Pere  Hyacinthe  spent  a  winter  in  Rome  about  this  time. 
It  was  after  he  had  left  the  Romish  Church — he  had  been 
a  priest — and  was  now  married  and  a  professor.  He  was  a 
fine-looking,  attractive,  and  agreeable  man.  I  never  heard 
him  preach,  but  he  was  said  to  be  a  remarkable  orator. 
His  wife  was  a  handsome,  rather  common  woman,  of  about 
thirty — I  think  she  had  been  a  corset-maker,  or  something 
of  that  sort. 

The  winter  of  1870  was  very  gay  and  my  wife  and  I 
were  so  busy  enjoying  ourselves  that  we  had  no  time  to 
think  of  the  cares  and  worries  of  life,  but,  all  the  same,  we 
were  rather  glad  when  the  spring  came  and  we  did  not  have 
to  go  out  somewhere  or  other  every  evening.  I  remember 
a  very  grand  ball  at  the  French  Embassy,  where  the  dia- 
monds and  dresses  were  gorgeous  and  the  number  of  princes 
and  princesses  quite  overpowering.  The  rooms  at  the  Co- 
lonna  palace  where  the  ball  was  given  are  very  fine,  and 
the  music  and  flowers  were  beautiful,  but  the  Americans, 
only  about  a  dozen  of  whom  were  asked,  were  astonished 
to  find  that  the  supper  consisted  of  only  tea,  chocolate, 
cake,  lemonade,  and  candy. 

At  last  the  rush  of  Holy  Week  and  the  splendid  Easter 
ceremonies  at  St.  Peter's  were  over,  foHowed  in  the  incon- 
gruous Roman  fashion  by  fireworks,  horse-races,  and  iHu- 
minations.     St.  Peter's  was  beautiful,  strung  all  over  with 



little  lights — although,  of  course,  it  was  before  the  day  of 
electricity — so  that  the  outline  of  the  wonderful  dome  could 
be  seen  sparkling  for  miles  away  across  the  Campagna. 

Mrs.  Armstrong  to  her  mother,  Mrs.  Neilson,  New  York 

Rome,  June  19,  1870. 
"...  Last  Thursday  was  a  great  festival  here,  with  a 
splendid  procession  around  the  Square  of  St.  Peter's,  monks 
in  white  and  monks  in  brown,  priests  in  white  and  in  black, 
and  black  with  huge  red  crosses  on  their  breasts,  bishops 
in  their  white  robes  and  mitres,  a  band  of  music,  the  Pope's 
guard  in  splendid  uniforms  on  horseback,  cone-shaped 
canopies  representing  the  greatest  churches  in  Rome — 
the  basilicas — with  magnificent  crucifixes  carried  before 
and  after  them,  and  then  the  Pope,  carried  on  a  large  plat- 
form with  a  canopy  over  him.  He  is  supposed  to  be  kneel- 
ing at  an  altar,  and  his  drapery  is  arranged  to  look  as  if 
his  legs  came  out  behind,  but  in  reality  he  is  sitting,  as  it 
would  be  too  fatiguing  for  him  to  kneel  so  long.  Another 
day  an  altar  was  arranged  in  the  Corso,  and  as  it  was  just 
before  dusk  all  the  candles  shone  very  prettily  in  the  pro- 
cession and  on  the  altar." 

The  last  spree  of  the  season  was  the  Artists'  Festival 
at  Cervara.  It  had  been  forbidden  for  the  previous  ten 
years,  so  this  time  it  was  gotten  up  with  unusual  care.  The 
German  artists  were  the  principal  performers,  though  others 

I  joined  in,  making  a  motley  crowd,  dressed  in  every  variety 
of  absurd   and   picturesque   costume — Arabs,    Druids,    In- 

{  dians,  Greeks,  Egyptians — some  mounted  on  horses,  but 
the  greater  part  of  them  astride  of  donkeys.  They  assem- 
bled at  an  earl}-  hour  at  one  of  the  gates  and  marched  in 
procession  to  the  Tor  degli  Schiavi,  that  fine  ruin  on  the 



Campagna,  where  they  breakfasted  and  then  went  on  to 
Cervara.  The  caves  there  are  exceedingly  picturesque,  cut 
out  of  the  solid  rock,  and  here  they  danced,  acted  little 
plays,  and  rode  most  entertaining  races — fifty  or  sixty 
horses  and  asses,  with  gayly  decorated  riders,  speeding 
up  and  down  a  meadow  for  an  hour  or  so,  while  the  lookers- 
on  dotting  the  hillsides  applauded  uproariously.  Our  party, 
a  jolly  crowd  of  intimate  friends,  took  our  lunch  under  the 
shadow  of  a  great  rock,  prolonging  it  until  twilight  fell, 
when  an  immense  dragon  crawled  heavily  out  of  one  of  the 
caverns  and  was  quickly  despatched  by  a  nimble  St.  George, 
mounted  on  a  stick,  w^hose  comic  victory  brought  the  pag- 
eant to  a  close.  Then  home  across  the  lovely  Campagna, 
of  which  one  never  tired,  its  delicate  colors  ever  changing 
into  something  even  more  enchanting. 

When  all  these  festivities  were  over,  and  spring  had 
really  come,  most  of  the  bores — the  newspaper  correspon- 
dents, the  importunate  Americans  with  their  strange  de- 
mands on  the  Consulate,  and  the  tourists  in  general — left 
Rome  and  we  settled  down  to  two  calm  months  of  charm- 
ing weather  and  the  pleasantest  life  in  the  world.  It  was 
like  June  at  home,  every  old  ruin  draped  with  flowers  and 
the  air  so  sweet  that  it  reminded  me  of  the  Danskammer 
apple-orchard  in  full  bloom.  The  longer  I  lived  in  Rome 
the  more  I  loved  it ! 

In  the  autumn  of  1870  the  Franco-Prussian  War  was  at 
its  height — the  battle  of  Sedan  was  on  the  first  of  Sep- 
tember. It  seems  strange  now  to  remember  that  the  sym- 
pathies of  most  Americans  were  with  the  Prussians,  per- 
haps because  it  was  the  French  who  had  declared  war,  but 
partly  for  the  reasons  implied  in  the  letter  from  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Nevin  given  below.  Mr.  Nevin,  rector  of  the  Amer- 
ican Church  in  Rome,  had  tried  to  join  the  American  Am- 
bulance Corps  in  France,  as  he  felt  it  was  his  duty  to  do 



so  on  account  of  the  experience  he  had  had  in  our  Civil 
War,  but,  for  the  same  reason,  he  realized  just  what  such 
an  offer  implied  in  the  way  of  hardships  and  horrors. 

The  Reverend  Robert  J.  Nevin  to  D.  M.  A. 

Geneva,  Sept.  13,  1870. 

".  .  .  The  French  empire  has  gone  like  a  dream.  No 
voice  to  say  a  word  for  it.  The  Papacy  goes  the  same  way, 
at  least  its  temporal  power.  Both  have  provoked  their 
fate,  and  Christianity  is  the  better  for  it.  The  world  and 
the  Devil  went  a  little  too  far  this  year,  at  both  Paris  and 
Rome,  and  have  come  to  great  grief.  I  shall  consider  it 
a  blessing  to  our  social  life,  even  if  it  come  in  a  sharp  dis- 
guise, if  the  influence  of  Paris  be  so  broken  that  it  no  longer 
controls  the  world's  society,  and  I  am  willing  to  sacrifice 
something  in  the  gayeties,  and  bonnets,  and  charming 
toilettes  of  our  girls.  Even  if  Paris  be  bombarded  I  shall 
not  grieve  greatly  over  the  vandalism. 

They  have  not  called  upon  mc  to  come  to  Paris.  I 
expect  the  chairman  of  the  American  Ambulance  Corps 
skedaddled  before  he  got  my  letter.  Communications  seem 
now  to  be  cut,  and  I  breathe  freely.  I  know  it  would  have 
been  bad  to  do  hospital  work,  before  a  winter's  work  in 
Rome,  but  I  could  not  help  offering  to  go,  so  sad  were  the 
tales  of  unrelieved  suffering.  Now  especially,  since  the  ma- 
turing of  affairs  in  Rome,  I  am  glad  not  to  be  called  on.  I  do 
not  anticipate  resistance  in  Rome  and  hope  to  hear  in  a  day 
(;r  two  of  its  quiet  occupation  by  the  Italian  forces,  which 
will  be  the  surest  safeguard  against  revolution  within." 

My  wife  had  a  friend  in  Paris  of  whom  she  was  ver}' 
fond,  Miss  Gabrielle  Goffard,  a  niece  of  M.  Chez  d'est  Angcs, 
who  had  a  lovely  country  place  at  Ville  Neuve  St.  George, 
where  we  once  spent  a  night,  as  well  as  a  fine  house  in  Paris. 



He  was  not  only  a  distinguished  lawyer,  a  senator,  and  a 
commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  but  he  was  a  collector 
of  objets  d'art,  and  his  house  was  crowded  with  splendid 
things.  When  the  Goffards  returned  to  Paris  after  the 
war  was  over  they  found  their  own  house  uninjured,  but 
there  was  little  left  of  Ville  Neuve  St.  George — every  bit 
of  furniture,  bronzes,  pictures,  and  porcelain  was  either 
broken  or  burned. 

When  I  first  visited  Italy,  in  1859,  war  was  imminent, 
France  and  Italy  being  united  against  Austria,  a.nd  as  I 
passed  through  north  Italy  I  saw  troops  drilling  in  every 
town;  in  a  previous  chapter  I  have  spoken  of  seeing  Napo- 
leon in  Paris,  on  his  w^ay  to  the  great  victories  of  Magenta 
and  Solferino.  But  there  was  to  be  a  different  finish  to 
the  war  of  1870,  though  Italy  was  again  to  come  out  on 
top.  The  temporal  power  of  the  Pope,  long  tottering  to 
its  fall,  had  been  sustained  only  by  the  artificial  prop  of  the 
French  army,  and  when  Napoleon  was  obliged  to  withdraw 
his  troops  from  Rome  to  use  them  against  the  Prussians 
every  one  knew  that  the  end  of  the  Papal  States  was  near. 

In  August,  1870 — a  memorable  date  in  the  history  of 
Italy — I  was  staying  with  my  family  in  Bellagio  at  the 
Villa  Giulia,  a  palace  on  Lake  Como  belonging  to  the  King 
of  Belgium,  at  that  time  used  as  a  hotel.  It  was  a  lovely 
place,  surrounded  by  lawns  and  gardens,  shaded  by  ancient 
horse-chestnut  trees,  and  there  was  such  a  variety  of  nice 
subjects  that  I  spent  most  of  my  time  sketching.  I  re- 
member making  a  study  of  a  group  of  peasants'  cottages, 
with  ears  of  yellow  corn  festooned  between  the  windows 
in  their  gray  stone  walls.  Over  my  head,  where  I  sat,  a 
large  fig-tree  spread  its  branches  and  every  now  and  then 
dropped  a  luscious  purple  fig  on  the  pavement  beside  me, 
all  ready  to  be  eaten — in  fact,  they  almost  dropped  into 
my  mouth. 



Broad  grassy  avenues  led  away  from  the  villa,  out  to  the 
top  of  the  cliffs  overlooking  the  lake,  and  at  the  end  of  one 
of  these  avenues  I  made  another  sketch,  where  two  weather- 
beaten  stone  posts,  flanked  by  giant  cypresses,  guarded 
a  flight  of  stone  steps  that  led  down  to  the  water.  From 
this  spot  there  was  a  divine  view,  across  Como  to  Cadenab- 
bia  and  the  blue  mountains  towering  above  it;  but  the 
view  from  the  other  end  of  the  avenue  was  just  as  lovely. 
Here  was  a  little  Greciar^  temple,  a  sort  of  summer-house, 
and  I  was  sitting  there  one  peaceful  August  morning  paint- 
ing a  little  picture — I  have  it  still,  a  small  steamer  plough- 
ing its  way  across  the  blue  water,  leaving  a  broad  wake 
behind  it.  I  was  thinking  what  a  long,  pleasant  summer 
lay  before  me — thinking  of  anything  rather  than  war — 
when  a  telegram  was  brought  to  me  summoning  me  to  Rome. 
War  had  been  declared  by  the  Italian  Government  against 
the  Papal  States,  troops  were  marching  toward  Rome  and 
were  about  to  attack  it. 

As  there  was  at  that  time  no  other  ofFicial  in  Rome  rep- 
resenting the  United  States,  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  go  there 
at  once;  so  my  dreams  of  a  long  summer  hohday  were 
dashed  and  I  started  for  Rome,  leaving  my  family  at  Bel- 

All  went  quietly  and  well  until  the  third  morning,  when 
the  train  stopped  at  a  little  station  and  the  passengers — 
there  were  but  three — were  told  that  the  train  could  go 
no  further,  as  the  tracks  had  been  torn  up  by  the  Italians. 
We  found  ourselves  on  the  Campagna,  about  twenty-five 
miles  from  Rome;  it  was  a  deserted  spot  and  there  were 
no  signs  of  a  conversance  of  any  sort  and  nothing  to  be  had 
to  eat;  but  after  exploring  the  neighborhood  I  found  a 
wretched  little  hut,  inhabited  by  a  ragged  old  peasant, 
owner  of  a  rickety  box-wagon  without  springs  or  scats, 
drawn  by  a  half-starved  horse,  whose  dilapidated  harness 



was  tied  together  with  bits  of  string.  As  I  was  at  his  mercy, 
I  had  to  promise  him  an  enormous  price,  I  have  forgotten 
what,  to  induce  him  to  take  us  to  Rome.  Then  I  returned 
to  the  train  and  offered  the  hospitality  of  the  wagon  to 
my  fellow  travellers,  which  they  were  very  glad  to  accept 
and  cheerfully  shared  the  cost  of  the  wagon  with  me.  They 
were  pleasant  young  fellows,  who  proved  to  be  connected 
with  the  Austrian  Legation  at  Rome,  a  little  patronizing 
in  their  manner,  asking  me  how  I  expected  to  get  into  Rome. 
I  told  them  that  I  had  my  American  passport  and  thought 
I  should  have  no  difficulty,  but  they  seemed  doubtful  and 
assured  me  of  their  help  and  protection,  as  being  in  the 
diplomatic  service  they  would  certainly  have  no  trouble. 

The  driver  put  strips  of  rough  board  across  the  wagon 
for  seats,  and  we  filled  the  rest  of  it  with  our  luggage.  It 
was  now  about  ten  o'clock  and  we  went  on  our  way.  We 
had  had  no  breakfast  except  some  luscious  black  and  yellow 
grapes  that  a  boy  brought  us  on  the  train,  so  after  a  while 
we  were  glad  to  see  a  little  "osteria"  with  a  bush  over  the 
door,  but  it  proved  to  have  no  wine,  nor  even  bread.  The 
only  thing  they  could  give  us  was  three  of  the  smallest 
eggs  I  have  ever  eaten,  and  when  I  asked  for  salt  they 
brought  it  on  a  vine  leaf,  perfectly  black,  just  as  it  had 
been  dug  from  the  soil;  so  we  stood  in  the  road  and  quickly 
devoured  our  little  eggs,  saltless  and  breadless.  We  could 
not,  like  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  amateur  emigrant,  "line 
ourselves"  very  comfortably  with  these  eggs,  and  we  got 
nothing  more  to  eat  that  day.  It  was  scorching  hot  and 
the  long  white  road  was  dusty.  The  Campagna  at  that 
season  was  burned  to  a  uniform  tint  of  light-tan  color,  with 
occasionally  a  strip  of  green  along  the  water-courses,  but 
it  was  beautiful  as  always,  the  wide  yellow  plain  dissolv- 
ing into  the  blue  and  pink  of  the  distant  mountains.    When 



at  last  we  reached  the  old  Nomcntano  bridge  we  saw  Rome, 
dominated  by  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  and  the  Italian  army, 
sixty  thousand  strong,  their  tents  dotting  the  hills  and  regi- 
ments of  cavalry  drilling  on  the  plain. 

All  was  bustle  and  confusion  at  the  Porta  Pia,  where 
we  wished  to  enter.  The  front  of  the  gateway  and  the  walls 
on  either  side  of  it  were  piled  high  with  sand-bags,  and  in 
front  of  the  gate  itself  and  ahiiost  obscuring  it  was  an  earth- 
work also  strengthened  by  sand-bags.  After  a  long  alter- 
cation with  our  driver  as  to  the  amount  of  the  "buona 
mano,"  which  in  Italy  no  matter  how  much  you  pay  is 
never  enough,  one  glance  at  my  passport  by  the  ofhcials 
assured  me  of  a  prompt  and  polite  invitation  to  enter;  but 
when  my  Austrian  acquaintances  presented  their  passports 
their  reception  was  quite  different,  so  our  relative  positions 
were  altered,  and  much  to  their  chagrin  and  in  spite  of  my 
entreaties  and  assurances  they  were  obh'ged  to  remain  out- 
side of  the  walls  all  night,  and  when  I  met  them  in  Rome 
the  next  day  their  patronage  of  me  had  ceased.  But  they 
were  good  fellows  all  the  same,  and  I  recall  our  long  day 
together  with  pleasure  in  the  retrospect. 

Having  my  apartment  all  ready  at  64  Via  Sistina,  I  felt 
quite  at  home.  I  had  my  breakfast  at  the  Caffe  Greco  and 
my  dinner  at  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre,  and  I  allowed  the 
keeper  of  the  hotel,  as  I  was  his  guest,  to  put  up  the  Amer- 
ican flag,  which  he  seemed  to  think  would  be  a  protection 
from  the  northern  invaders.  There  were  no  travellers  and 
few  Americans;  all  the  studios  were  closed;  one  could  not 
communicate  with  the  outer  world  at  all,  either  by  letter 
or  telegraph,  and  I  did  not  receive  any  word  from  my  family 
for  several  weeks— Rome  was  hermetically  scaled.  It  was 
dull  and  very  quiet,  but  I  rather  enjoyed  it,  for  I  had  plenty 
of  time  to  sketch;    and  there  was  little  else  to  do,  except 



to  interview  stranded  Americans  who  wanted  the  protec- 
tion of  the  American  flag;  it  was  surprising  how  many  turned 
up  whom  I  had  never  heard  of.  Among  those  who  asked 
for  protection  were  the  American  students  at  the  American 
College  and  at  the  Propaganda,  who,  of  course,  had  a  right 
to  it;  and  I  was  as  liberal  as  I  could  be  in  according  every- 
body such  privileges,  but  I  had  to  draw  the  line  at  the  ap- 
phcation  of  an  American  lady,  the  wife  of  a  distinguished 
Roman  official,  for  she  was  no  longer  an  American  citizen. 
She  was  very  indignant  and  threatened  to  complain  to 

In  the  summer  in  most  of  the  Italian  cities  the  shops 
are  closed  nearly  all  day,  except  early  in  the  morning  and 
in  the  evening,  and  the  streets  are  deserted,  save  for  a  few 
people  crawling  along  the  shady  side  of  the  street,  because 
the  Italians  fear  the  sunshine  in  summer  as  much  as  the 
shade  in  winter.  But  even  then  Rome  was  unusually  quiet. 
We  supposed,  as  it  proved  later,  that  the  people  as  a  whole 
were  in  favor  of  the  Italian  Government,  but  there  were 
no  demonstrations  or  disturbance,  and  although  the  troops 
were  busy  drilling  they  showed  no  evidence  of  excite- 

The  day  before  the  attack  came,  I  went  to  the  grounds 
of  the  Villa  Medici,  to  the  top  of  a  hill  where  one  had  a 
view  of  the  encampment  of  the  whole  Italian  army.  This 
hill  is  apparently  an  artificial  one,  covered  with  trees  and 
approached  by  a  long  flight  of  steps  from  the  *'Bosco," 
adjoining  the  other  grounds  and  gardens  of  the  Villa  Medici, 
which  is  occupied  by  the  French  Academy  of  Rome;  over 
the  door  of  the  academy  is  this  inscription : 

"Napoleon  le  Grand 
Les  Arts  reconuaissant." 



The  Bosco  is  a  lovely  wild  overgrown  spot,  gay  uith  flowers 
in  spring,  especially  cyclamen,  and  giving  charming  vistas 
between  gnarled  ilex  trees  over  the  old  walls  of  Rome  and 
the  Villa  Borghese — the  very  place  where  one  would  expect 
to  see  nymphs  and  satyrs  sporting  in  the  shade.  Ahhough 
I  never  met  any  such  charming  creatures,  one  seldom  went 
there  without  finding  some  artist  sketching,  or  posing  a 
model  under  the  trees. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  top  of  this  hill,  I  found  there  a 
number  of  Papal  Zouaves  with  field-glasses,  watching  the 
Italian  troops  and  discussing  the  result,  as  they  expected 
an  attack  soon.  The  Zouaves  were  attractive,  dashing 
young  fellows,  a  cosmopolitan  lot  of  all  nations,  Americans, 
English,  Irish,  German,  and  French,  many  of  them  of  noble 
families.  These  boys  chatted  very  pleasantly,  were  gay 
and  hopeful  and  did  not  seem  at  all  cast  down  at  the  prospect 
of  a  battle  with  a  great  army.  Poor  fellows,  they  did  not 
realize  what  humiliation  a  day  would  bring  forth  for  them. 

Early  next  morning  at  five  o'clock,  on  September  20, 
1870,  heavy  cannonading  began.  Calvi  became  much  ex- 
cited, and  said  that  he  felt  very  warlike  and  that  it  was 
grand,  and  suggested  that  we  should  go  up  on  the  roof  and 
see  the  fun;  but  when  we  reached  there,  although  the  noise 
was  deafening,  for  the  firing  was  quite  near,  we  could  see 
nothing  because  of  the  intervening  buildings.  In  a  few 
minutes  something  whizzed  through  the  air  right  between 
us  and  he  exclaimed: 

"What  was  that?" 

I  said,  "A  bullet." 

Whereupon  he  said  he  did  not  feel  so  much  interested 
after  all  and  suggested  that  we  descend,  which  we  accord- 
ingly did,  and  as  we  went  down  through  the  skylight  we 
saw  where  a  bullet  had  lodged  in  the  casing  through  which 



we  had  just  come  up.    We  found  later  that  a  shell  had  burst 
in  the  Terrys'  apartment  and  done  a  good  deal  of  damage. 
Calvi  and  I  then  walked  out  through  the  Via  Sistina 
to  the  Piazza  Barberini,  where  the  ground  was  strew^n  with 
bits  of  shell,  some  of  which  we  picked  up.     The  firing  by 
this  time  had  ceased;   it  lasted  in  all  only  about  two  hours. 
From  the  Piazza  w^e  walked  up  toward  the  Porta  Pia  and 
on  the  way  passed  the  Villa  Buonaparte,  through  the  grounds 
of  which  the  Italians  had  entered  at  ten  o'clock  by  a  gap- 
ing fissure  that  they  had  soon  made  in  the  old  Roman  wall, 
which  was  not  at  all  prepared  for  modern  artillery.     I  saw 
there  a  Papal  Zouave  lying  dead  on  his  back  under  an  ilex 
bush  near  the  gate.     Nearby  w-as  one  of  those  long,  narrow, 
straight,  paved  streets  with  a  tiny  sidewalk  and  high  walls 
on  either  side,  and  this  was  lined  on  both  sides  as  far  as 
one  could  see,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  with  Italian 
bersaglieri,  in  single  file,  wdth  their  rifles  grounded.     Pres- 
ently  there  appeared  the   Papal  Zouaves,   without  arms, 
marching  tw^o  and  tw  o,  very  much  dishevelled,  among  them 
my  acquaintances  of  the  day  before;  and  as  they  passed 
the  Italians  kept  shouting,  '*Viva  Italia!"  and  "Verdi!" 
which  stands  for  Vittorio  Emanuele  Re  d'  Italia,  and  mak- 
ing a  singular  rolhng  sound  under  their  tongues  that  was 
like  distant  thunder,  spitting  on  the  Zouaves  and  thump- 
ing the  butts  of  their  guns  on  their  toes  and  offering  them 
every  indignity.     It  was  pitiful  to  see  these  poor  fellows 
hopping  about  to  avoid  the  blows;    it  w'as  shocking  and 
humihating.    Among  them  was  a  young  man  whom  I  had 
often  seen,  Charette,  who  belonged  to  a  noble  family — 
one  lock  of  his  black  hair  was  perfectly  w^hite  and  he  w^as 
said  to  be  very  proud  of  this,  as  it  had  descended  in  his 
family  as  a  distinguishing  mark  for  many  generations:  he, 
poor  fellow,  was  hopping  about  and  trying  to  protect  his 



toes  with  the  rest.  The  next  day  the  Zouaves  were  all  as- 
sembled in  the  great  Square  of  St.  Peter's  and  expel Ic-d 
from  Rome  and  we  never  saw  them  more.  The  whole  afTair 
was  very  different  from  the  gallant  defense  of  the  Quattro 
Venti  of  Rome  by  Garibaldi  in  1849. 

As  soon  as  it  was  known  that  Rome  had  surrendered, 
there  was  a  perfect  irruption  of  Italian  flags;  the  colors 
seemed  to  float  from  every  window  and  above  every  tower — 
the  people  had  evidently  been  making  and  secreting  them 
for  a  long  while..  Crowds  paraded  up  and  down  the  streets, 
mad  with  joy.  The  soldiers,  looking  very  friendly  and 
cheerful,  were  welcomed  and  embraced,  kissed  and  cheered 
by  every  one  they  met,  and  the  public  squares  were  soon 
filled  with  cavalry  horses  tethered  to  every  projection, 
and  piles  of  hay  and  other  fodder  scattered  all  over  the 
pavements.  It  looked  like  war,  although  there  had  been 
little  of  a  real  battle. 

The  streets  soon  assumed  their  normal  condition,  ex- 
cept that  there  were  no  more  gorgeous  cardinal's  carriages 
or  papal  processions;  but,  instead,  the  Royal  Guard  of 
Prince  Humbert,  mostly  Roman  nobles,  in  their  gay  uni- 
forms and  mounted  on  splendid  horses,  or  troops  of  Ixt- 
saglieri,  with  their  great  bhick  hats  plumed  with  cocks' 
feathers,  trotting  along  at  double  quick — as  the  old  song  says : 

"Voi  altri  bersaglieri, 
Ch'avete  le  gambc  buonc, 
Andiamo  pigliar  Roma!" 

Yes,  Rome  had  changed.  It  had  jumped  from  the  mid- 
dle ages  into  the  present  and,  alas !  lost  much  of  its  pic- 
turesqueness.  But  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  people  were 
delighted  at  the  change.  The  vote  for  the  Italian  Govern- 
ment was  forty-five  thousand  for  and  forty-five  against. 



With  the  advent  of  the  Italians  the  population  was 
soon  increased  by  sixty  thousand  and  it  was  difficult  to 
house  the  newcomers;  so  much  so,  that  there  was  a  wild 
speculation  in  land  and  building.  New  shops  were  opened 
and  remained  open  on  Sunday — Papal  Rome  was  the  most 
moral  city,  in  appearance,  that  I  have  ever  known — in- 
deed, ultimately  so  many  houses  were  built  that  the  supply 
outran  the  demand,  land  decreased  in  value,  and  some  of 
the  new  buildings  were  never  completed.  In  this  specu- 
lation many  of  the  nobility  were  involved  with  disastrous 
results,  among  them  the  Borghese,  who,  I  understand, 
were  almost  ruined. 

Rome  was  not  actually  made  the  capital  of  Italy  until 
the  next  summer,  and  then  there  were  great  rejoicings 
throughout  the  country.  We  were  in  Venice  at  the  time. 
Flags  were  hung  from  every  window,  meeting  and  crossing 
in  an  archway  over  the  narrow  streets,  San  Marco  was 
wonderfully  illuminated,  and  everywhere  little  printed 
bills  were  stuck  up  expressing  sympathy  with  Victor  Em- 
manuel. One  of  these  read:  "Glory  to  God  for  having 
given  such  long  Hfe  to  Pius  IX  that  he  is  able  to  see  Rome 
made  the  capital  of  Italy." 

After  the  taking  of  Rome  the  Vatican  was  closed  to 
sightseers,  and  only  a  few  permits  were  given  me  by  Car- 
dinal Antonelli;  so  few  that  it  made  it  rather  awkward 
for  me  having  to  discriminate  among  all  the  Americans 
who  clamored  for  them. 

An  old  prophecy  had  foretold  the  destruction  of  Rome 
by  an  earthquake  on  the  tenth  of  November,  1870,  and  a 
good  many  people  were  really  anxious  until  that  day  had 
passed  with  nothing  worse  than  a  very  bad  thunder-storm. 
Another  prophecy  declared  that  no  Pope  could  rule  longer 
than  St.  Peter's  twenty-five  years,  so  although  Pio  Nono 



was  Pope  much  longer  than  that,  they  said  that  it  did  not 
really  count,  as  he  had  lost  his  temporal  power. 

King  Victor  Emmanuel  never  came  to  live  in  Rome,  but 
merely  visited  it  for  a  short  time,  wlien  he  had  an  uproari- 
ously enthusiastic  reception.  I  saw  him  drive  through  the 
Via  Sistina,  accompanied  by  a  mihtary  guard.  He  was  a 
very  fat,  red-faced  man,  of  regal  manner,  bowing  grandly 
right  and  left  as  he  passed. 

Shortly  after  Rome  was  taken,  I  was  promoted  from 
being  Consul  to  the  Papal  States  to  be  Consul-General  for 
Italy  at  Rome.  This  increased  mj'  work  a  great  deal,  as 
the  consul-general  has  charge  of  all  communications  from 
the  consuls,  including  the  forwarding  of  all  accounts  of 
their  offices  to  the  department  of  state  at  Washington, 
and  he  has  to  see  that  all  such  reports  are  correct  before 
forwarding  them — at  least  that  was  the  way  in  my  tinie. 
Mr.  Marsh,  the  American  Minister,  resided  in  Florence 
and  did  not  come  to  Rome  until  the  following  year;  so  I 
still  remained  in  charge  of  the  Legation  and  attended  to 
any  business  connected  therewith,  both  with  the  Vatican 
and  the  Italian  Government. 

One  of  these  extra  duties  of  mine,  usually  performed 
by  an  accredited  minister,  was  presenting  Americans  to 
Prince  Humbert  and  Princess  Margherita,  who  had  come 
at  once  to  Rome  and  estabhshed  their  court  at  the  Quirinal. 
I  presented  a  great  many  that  winter,  and  I  also  continued 
to  present  my  countrymen  to  the  Pope.  Both  Prince  Hum- 
bert and  Princess  Margherita  were  simple  and  gracious  at 
their  receptions;  she  struck  me  as  especially  charmmg— 
young  and  handsome,  with  a  most  sweet  expression. 

I  had  a  private  audience  with  Prince  Humbert,  gomg 
one  afternoon  by  appointment  to  the  Quirinal.  After  regis- 
tering my  name  in  an  anteroom,  an  attendant  took  me  to 



the  prince's  library,  where  the  prince  was  sitting  alone; 
he  immediately  got  up  and  shook  hands  with  me  and  asked 
me  to  take  a  seat,  and,  as  he  was  smoking,  offered  me  a  cigar. 
We  talked  about  twenty  minutes  before  I  got  up  to  go,  when 
he  walked  with  me  to  the  open  fireplace,  where  we  warmed 
ourselves  and  he  continued  to  smoke  and  talk,  and  when 
I  left  he  went  ahead  of  me  to  the  door  and  opened  it  him- 
self. It  was  just  like  any  pleasant  call  of  one  American 
gentleman  on  another.  Outside  a  single  attendant  was 
waiting  and  walked  with  me  to  the  gate.  I  often  saw  Prince 
Humbert  riding  at  the  Hunt  on  the  Campagna.  The  horse 
that  he  habitually  rode  was  an  immense  animal,  seventeen 
hands  high,  that  looked  as  if  it  could,  jump  anything,  but 
I  heard  that  he  was  not  allowed  to  take  any  chances  and 
that  he  was  obliged  to  ride  with  circumspection,  so  royalty 
has  its  drawbacks  in  this  as  in  many  other  ways. 

The  opening  of  the  first  Parliament  in  Rome  was  an 
important  event  which  many  grandees  attended.  The  Em- 
peror of  Brazil  was  present  in  the  royal  box.  He  was  a 
fine-looking  man  in  civilian  dress  set  off  by  a  pair  of  bright 
green  gloves  with  immensely  long  fingers. 

Mrs.  Armstrong  to  Her  Mother 

Rome,  April  17,  1O71. 
".  .  .  Last  Thursday  I  was  presented  to  the  Pope.  I 
went  with  the  Wetherills  and  took  fittle  Margaret.  A  great 
many  persons  were  presented;  we  all  waited  in  a  large 
hall,  and  the  Pope  came  in  and  went  around  the  room, 
saying  a  few  words  to  each  person  as  their  names  were  told 
him.  He  took  fittle  Margaret  right  up  in  his  arms,  and 
then  she  kissed  his  hand.  Then  he  went  to  one  end  of  the 
room  and  made  a  little  address  and  blessed  us  all,  and  all 
the  rosaries,  crosses,  etc.,  that  we  had  with  us,  and  our 



families  and  our  travels.  I  had  a  number  of  rosaries,  whicli 
the  servants  at  home  will  vakic.  He  is  a  very  fine-looking 
old  man,  sweet  and  pleasant  in  his  manner.  His  eye  is 
bright  and  keen  still  and  he  does  not  look  at  all  infirm  or 

The  next  evening  Maitland  and  I  went  to  a  party  at 
the  Quirinal.  When  we  first  went  in  we  were  received  by 
the  Princess,  and  after  a  little  while  she  led  the  way,  through 
a  handsome  suite  of  rooms,  to  a  pretty  little  theatre  where 
we  had  private  theatricals,  a  little  Italian  play  and  two 
in  French.  The  acting  was  very  good  indeed,  and  between 
the  acts  ices  were  handed.  When  the  play  was  over  the 
Princess  went  first  and  we  all  followed  her  through  some 
other  handsome  rooms  to  the  supper-room,  an  immense 
place  with  a  table  all  around  three  sides,  so  that  we  could 
all  sit  down.  We  had  a  delicious  supper,  the  waiters  were 
all  behind  the  tables  and  handed  everything.  After  supper 
the  Princess  bid  good  evening  and  left  first,  then  we  all 
came  away. 

The  other  morning,  before  I  was  up,  Mrs.  Wilcoxen 
rushed  over  to  ask  me  to  come  at  once  to  see  her  baby  as 
it  was  very  ill.  I  hurried,  but  before  I  got  there  the  baby 
was  better.  I  don't  know  what  they  would  do  if  they  were 
to  lose  that  baby." 

Mrs.  Wilcoxen  and  Miss  Niles  were  Americans,  the 
daughters  of  Doctor  Niles,  who  left  them  an  enormous 
fortune,  but  only  for  life  unless  they  had  children.  .Mrs. 
Wilcoxen  had  been  married  for  many  years  when  the  child 
of  whom  my  wife  speaks  was  born.  If  this  little  heir  had 
not  appeared  on  the  scene,  the  property  would  have  been 
inherited  by  a  cousin,  a  young  man  who  was  with  them  in 
Rome.     My  wife  once  laughingly  said  to  Miss  Niles:    "I 



should  think  you  would  be  afraid  your  cousin  would  want 
to  poison  the  baby."  But  she  answered  quite  seriously, 
"Oh,  no,  he  is  Jar  too  good!" 

Miss  Niles  afterward  married  General  Badeau,  and  her 
wedding  in  New  York  was  a  tremendous  affair.  She  and 
her  sister  were  twins  and  were  supposed  to  be  the  originals 
of  the  twins  in  Eugene  Sue's  "Wandering  Jew." 

The  Reverend  Robert  J.  Nevin  was  appointed  rector  of 
the  American  Church  in  Rome  about  the  same  time  that  I 
went  there  in  1869,  and  remained  there  until  his  death,  in 
1906.  He  was  about  thirty,  having  lately  entered  the  minis- 
try, his  ordination  being  delayed  by  his  service  in  the  Civil 
War  as  captain  of  a  battery  in  the  United  States  army, 
where  he  distinguished  himself.  He  was  a  charming  and 
interesting  gentleman,  a  gallant,  manly  fellow,  full  of  enthu- 
siasm and  energy. 

The  Papal  government  did  not  allow  any  Protestant 
services  to  be  held  inside  the  walls  of  Rome,  except  at  some 
of  the  foreign  legations,  so  the  American  Chapel  was  out- 
side the  walls,  very  near  the  Porta  del  Popolo  and  opposite 
the  entrance  to  the  Villa  Borghese.  It  was  a  large  upper 
room,  furnished  with  chancel  and  altar,  ahvays  well  fdled 
and  in  the  season  thronged  with  Americans.  When  the 
Itahan  Government  came  to  Rome,  Doctor  Nevin  decided 
to  raise  funds  to  purchase  land  and  build  a  church  within 
the  walls,  to  be  called  St.  Paul's.  There  is  no  church  inside 
the  walls  of  Rome  dedicated  to  St.  Paul,  and  Pere  Hya- 
cinthe  remarked  that  it  was  strange  that  the  apostle  should 
have  found  his  way  back  into  the  Eternal  City  "via  Amer- 
ica." When  it  came  to  buying  the  land  in  Rome  and  a 
site  on  the  Via  Nazionale  was  selected,  it  was  found  neces- 
sary to  buy  a  much  larger  plot  than  was  needed  for  the 
church  alone;  so  several  of  the  American  residents  clubbed 



together,  myself  among  the  number,  and  took  a  deed  for 
the  rest  of  the  plot.  I  remained  an  owner  of  this  bit  of 
the  Eternal  City  for  several  years,  but  on  leaving  Rome 
I  sold  my  share  to  WiUiam  Haseltine,  another  of  the  orig- 
inal purchasers.  In  digging  the  foundation  of  the  church 
many  interesting  objects  were  discovered,  among  them  some 
very  large  amphora?,  one  of  which  was  presented  to  Grace 
Church,  New  York,  I  beheve  by  Miss  Wolfe,  and  now  stands 
in  the  rectory  grounds.  It  is  a  curious  change  of  scene  for 
this  old  jar,  that  once  heard  the  rumble  of  Roman  chariot 
wheels  and  now  echoes  to  the  jangling  bells  of  Broadway's 

Miss  Catherine  Lorillard  Wolfe  was  a  hberal  friend 
of  St.  Paul's  and  also  of  Grace  Church,  when  Bishop  Henry 
C.  Potter  was  rector.  Doctor  Nevin  and  Doctor  Potter 
were  very  intimate  and  in  Rome  were  seen  together  con- 
stantly. The  Romans  nicknamed  them  "Romulus  and 
Remus,"  because  they  were  both  "suckled  by  a  Wolf." 

I  held  every  position  in  the  American  Church  at  Rome 
except  that  of  rector.  I  w^as  clerk  of  the  vestry,  treasurer, 
senior  warden,  and  vestryman,  and  in  Doctor  Nevin's  ab- 
sence had  to  hunt  up  stray  clergymen  to  officiate  in  his  place. 

Nevin  had  hosts  of  warm  friends  and  a  large  acquaint- 
ance among  distinguished  people  throughout  Europe.  Not 
only  was  he  celebrated  for  his  genial  hospitality — always 
giving  his  guests  the  choicest  vintages,  for  he  was  one  of 
the  best  judges  of  wine  in  Italy — but  no  man  was  ever  more 
kind-hearted  and  generous  to  the  poor  of  all  denominations. 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  typhoid  one  winter  in  Rome  and 
Mr.  Nevin  spent  night  after  night  sitting  up  with  sick  people, 
for  we  had  no  trained  nurses  in  those  days;  not  long  after 
this,  he  raised  some  money  to  get  trained  nurses  in  Rome, 
such  as  they  already  had  in  England. 



He  was  a  discriminating  collector  of  objects  of  art  in 
a  large  way,  making  the  most  of  the  great  opportunities 
he  had  during  his  long  residence  in  Italy,  which  he  knew 
from  end  to  end,  and  bringing  together  many  fine  pictures 
of  the  primitive  school,  as  well  as  books,  marbles,  china, 
glass — anything  that  caught  his  fancy.  I  believe  that  for 
a  Bellini  of  his,  inherited  by  a  relation  in  America,  he  was 
offered  two  hundred  thousand  dollars.  He  was  a  fine  horse- 
man and  together  we  explored  the  Campagna  pretty  thor- 
oughly, but  he  did  not  think  it  expedient  for  a  clergyman 
to  ride  at  the  hunt  and  never  did  so.  He  was  a  mighty 
hunter  and  traveller  throughout  Europe,  in  India,  and  the 
\\  ilds  of  America  and  Mexico,  spending  several  vacations 
hunting  grizzlies  in  the  Rocky  Mountains.  In  South  Africa 
he  knew  Cecil  Rhodes,  who  gave  him  every  facility  for 
hunting  big  game,  and  one  fine  summer  he  spent  in  the 
Olympic  Mountains  with  Waldo  Story.  As  a  result  his 
collection  of  heads  and  hunting  trophies  was  nearly  un- 

I  have  many  pleasant  associations  with  Doctor  Nevin. 
One  summer  we  took  a  long  walk,  with  Henry  Van  Schaick 
of  New  York,  through  the  mountains  from  IschI,  starting 
at  dayhght  and  getting  back  to  IschI  at  eleven  at  night, 
having  accomphshed  forty-two  miles.  We  visited  the  beau- 
tiful Konigsee  together,  and  saw  a  chamois  far  up  the  moun- 
tainside, and  we  went  to  Munich  and  Augsburg  and  picked 
up  some  nice  bits  of  old  stained  glass.  The  Franco-Prus- 
sian War  was  just  breaking  out  and  we  found  all  the  pic- 
tures and  statues  in  the  art  galleries  of  Munich  had  been 
moved  away  and  hidden,  for  fear  that  the  French  would 
imitate  the  great  Napoleon  and  carry  them  off  to  France — 
the  Germans  were  not  then  so  sure  of  the  conquest  that 
they  afterward  achieved. 



Doctor  Nevin  to  D.  M.  A.,  Rome 

New  ^'ork,  June,  1872. 
...  Oh  my  dear  fellow,  you  cannot  imagine  how 
infinitely  flat  N.  Y.  society  is  after  Rome.  No  lions,  no 
distinguished  literati,  artists,  or  soldiers.  Ail  young  people 
who  talk  about  the  same  things  and  are  apt  to  give  you 
their  impressions  of  the  Rhine  and  the  Colosseum,  as  a 
novelty  in  conversation,  if  they  happen  to  have  been  across 
the  Atlantic.  Be  careful.  Do  nothing  that  will  precipitate 
you  rashly  into  this  city. 

Doctor  Nevin  to  D.  M.  A.,  New  York 

Rome,  March,  18-4. 

"...  Last  Sunday  I  was  forced  into  a  controversial 
attitude  by  a  series  of  miserably  evasive  and  disingenuous 
sermons  which  M'gr  Capel  has  been  preaching.  I  think 
I  have  brought  around  to  their  bearings  two  or  three  women 
whom  Capel's  eyes  had  been  unsettling  in  their  faitli,  and 
General  McCIellan  came  in  to-day  to  thank  me.  I  met 
Capel  at  Mrs.  Bruce's  that  evening — a  large  party,  M'gr 
Howard,  now  Archb'p,  being  present.  They  being  two  to 
one,  and  Bishops  at  that,  they  undertook  to  put  me  down, 
the  more  so  as  they  were  trying  to  capture  two  of  the  guests 
present.  After  they  got  tired  of  firing  bombs  at  me  I  felt 
free  to  prick  them  with  uncomfortable  questions. 

As  soon  as  the  soup  was  off,  Mrs.  Bruce  began  by  say- 
ing that  she  heard  M'gr  Capel  hadn't  done  much  this  trip, 
that  it  had  hardly  paid  him  for  coming.  But  he  assured 
her  he  had  seven  persons  under  instruction,  one  an  impor- 
tant man,  a  member  of  the  Gov't,  and  turned  to  me  with: 

*I  really  think,  my  dear  Mr.  Nevin,  the  wisest  thing 
you  could  do  would  be  to  become  the  eighth.' 



I  contented  myself  with  saying  that  I  hoped,  in  the 
interests  of  Christianity,  all  the  seven  were  Unitarians 
or  Quakers,  (in  allusion  to  Mrs.  Hicks,  who  is  reported  to 
have  entered  our  Church  and  to  be  on  the  point  of  marry- 
ing Dr.  Howland,)  which  he  took  perfectly  and  seemed  to 
enjoy  in  private,  no  one  else  understanding  it. 

Theodore  Roosevelt  has  promised  us  $500.  Crownin- 
shield  is  my  staunchest  friend;  there  is  something  very 
manly  and  true  about  him.  Ticknor  runs  the  Union  Chapel 
under  Mrs.  Gould.  No  one  married  here  since  Miss  Craw- 
ford, though  at  one  time  we  had  some  hopes  of  Wurts.  Miss 
Annie,  that  was,  is  said  to  be  keeping  up  a  perpetual  cooing 
with  her  young  man  in  a  cottage  by  the  sea  near  Naples.'* 

Via  Napoli  58,  Rome,  MaVch,  1898. 

"...  Pierpont  Morgan  is  here  and  has  been  with  me 
the  last  hour.  It  is  wonderful  the  certainty  of  his  think- 
ing in  business  matters.  He  is  chairman  of  our  trustees. 
We  have  had  no  meeting  for  three  years,  and  a  lot  of  ques- 
tions had  come  up  that  perplexed  me;  he  settled  every- 
thing at  sight,  hitting  instantly  conclusions  which  it  had 
taken  me  much  thinking  to  reach.  It  is  discouraging.  How- 
ever, I  can  ride  a  horse  or  shoot  a  rifle  better  than  he  can. 

Ward  is  mounting  my  S.  African  heads  in  London,  stein- 
bock,  roan  and  sable  antelope,  hartebeeste,  wildebeeste, 
and  giraff^e;  I  foolishly  did  not  bring  back  any  zebra  skins. 
Do  come  and  spend  next  winter  in  Rome." 

Rome,  July  4,  1900. 
When  the  glass  was  put  in  Grace  Church  Dr. 

had  conceived  the  idea  of  having  each  window  by  a  diff'er- 
ent  artist,  and  in  a  diff'erent  style,  'so  as  to  represent  in 
a  Catholic  way  the  art  of  the  ages.*     I  am  afraid  he  has 



not  grown  much  beyond  this;  hkc  many  great  men  he  sticks 
to  his  ideals  though  they  might  better  Ix-  relegated  to  the 

I  have  the  Fourth  of  July  dinner— the  German  Am- 
bassador, the  Ministers  of  England,  France,  Belgium,  etc., 
and  Baron  Blanc,  the  Itahan  sec.  of  foreign  affairs.  I  hope 
they  will  all  keep  the  peace.  The  Chinese  business  has 
made  things  very  sensitive  over  here.  England  begins 
to  see  how  heavy  will  be  her  bill  for  tlie  Chamberlain  raid 
on  the  Transvaal,  and  Russia  and  Germany  are  sailing 
ahead,  delighted  to  see  England  in  a  back  seat,  and  awak- 
ening mistrust  all  along  the  Hne.  Don't  invest  in  foreign 
securities  just  now,  and  keep  our  Government  out  of  any 
combined  war  on  China. 

Haseltine's  death  has  caused  a  sad  gap  here.  Give  my 
love  to  Marshall  and  cheer  him  up,  and  greet  all  the  good 

Affectionately  yours,  R.  J.  Ne\in." 

St.  Paul's  is  a  fine  Gothic  edifice,  built  from  Street's 
designs,  the  stained  glass  by  Clayton  &  Bell,  and  the  mosaics 
by  Salviati  of  Venice  from  the-  designs  of  Burne-Jones — 
altogether  a  noble  monument  to  the  memory  of  Doctor 
Nevin  its  founder.  He  died  alone  in  Mexico,  where  he  was 
travelling  when  his  end  came;  I  do  not  even  know  where 
he  is  buried.  It  was  sad  that  he  could  not  lie  in  Rome, 
the  scene  of  his  long,  useful,  and  happy  life,  in  the  lovely 
spot  hallowed  by  the  ashes  of  Shelley  and  Keats,  under 
the  shadow  of  the  dark  cypress  trees  and  the  pyramid  of 
Caius  Cestius. 




E  le  campane  si  sentono  sonare, 

E  si  sente  sonare  in  cielo  e  in  Roma. 

One  of  my  first  duties  on  reaching  Rome  in  October, 
1869,  was  to  care  for  the  effects  of  Thomas  H.  Hotchkiss, 
an  American  artist  who  had  lately  died  in  Sicily.  I  had 
never  known  Hotchkiss  but  he  had  many  warm  friends, 
among  them  Coleman  and  Vedder,  who  spoke  of  him  with 
admiration  and  affection.  He  was  a  landscape  painter, 
and  his  pictures  of  the  Roman  Campagna,  to  which  he 
devoted  years  of  study,  are  not  only  true  to  nature  but 
wonderful  in  drawing  and  color  and  filled  with  the  most 
dehghtful  feeling  and  sentiment.  Even  his  important  pic- 
tures were  painted,  I  beheve,  entirely  out  of  doors.  He 
was  quiet  and  retiring  and  but  httle  known,  because  he 
was  absorbed  in  study  from  nature,  and  he  painted  few 
large  pictures;  indeed,  he  produced  little  in  that  way  until 
a  year  or  two  before  his  death.  When  he  was  just  on  the 
threshold  of  fame  he  died  suddenly,  leaving  literally  thou- 
sands of  sketches.  He  had  a  great  future  before  him  and  was 
one  of  the  most  promising  artists  America  has  produced. 

I  know  httle  of  his  life  and  learned  that  little  from  the 
friends  who  loved  him.  He  was  born  at  Hudson,  New  York, 
of  very  poor  and  very  ignorant  parents,  and  his  childhood 
was  not  a  happy  one.  Even  when  very  young  he  showed 
talent  for  painting,  in  which  it  is  needless  to  say  he  had 
no  encouragement.     He  once  went  to  a  country  fair  and 



bought  some  paints  and  brushes,  but  when  he  tof)k  them 
home  his  family  destroyed  them,  thinking  that  they  were 
implements  for  gambling.  He  was  still  a  little  boy  whi-n 
they  put  him  to  work  in  a  briek-yard,  and  being  a  delicate 
child  the  hard  work  and  exposure,  and  perhaps  insufTicieni 
food,  planted  the  seeds  of  the  malady  that  ultimately  caused 
his  death.  As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  escape  from  this  slavery 
he  fled  to  New  York  in  opposition  to  the  wishes  of  his  family, 
who  cut  him  off  and  never  had  anything  more  to  do  with 
him.  He  was  friendless,  but  happening  to  know  the  pic- 
tures of  the  late  A.  B.  Durand,  he  appealed  to  him,  and 
Mr.  Durand  befriended  him  and  allowed  him  to  work  in 
his  studio.  How  and  why  he  came  to  Rome,  w  hich  thence- 
forward was  his  home,  I  do  not  know.  One  of  his  lirsl- 
rate  things,  a  view  of  the  Tor  degli  Schiavi  in  the  Gimpagna, 
was  bought  by  the  late  Charles  H.  Marshall,  of  New  ^'ork; 
and  another,  a  mountain  view  near  Perugia,  is  owned  by 
Wilham  H.  Herriman,  of  Rome.  But  his  chief  fame  was 
among  artists. 

Some  of  his  finest  w'ork  was  done  at  Taormina,  where 
a  favorite  subject  was  that  most  beautiful  ruin  in  the  world, 
the  Greek  Theatre.  A  few  of  its  marble  columns  arc  still 
standing  in  front  of  the  great  amphitheatre,  but  its  chief 
glory  is  the  wonderful  view  seen  through  and  beyond  its 
gigantic  red  brick  arches  and  walls,  relieved  against  the 
turquoise  sea  and  sky.  The  lovely  coast-line  of  the  straits 
of  Messina  winds  away  for  miles;  Point  Naxos  of  the  Greeks 
is  in  the  foreground;  and  beyond  lies  the  broad  undulatinu 
plain,  variegated  with  the  many-tinted  verdure  of  almond 
orchards  and  vineyards;  and  still  beyond  are  the  slopes 
and  peaks  of  Mount  Etna,  rising  ten  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea,  shining  white  with  snow  like  Mont  Blanc,  with 
wreaths  of  smoke  from  the  crater  drifting  across  the  sky— 



altogether,  one  of  the  most  entrancing  and  romantic  views 
on  earth,  never  the  same,  always  changing,  always  beau- 

It  was  here  that  Hotchkiss  was  spending  the  summer 
of  1869  with  John  Rollin  Tilton,  the  artist,  when  he  died 
of  a  hemorrhage  of  the  lungs.  It  was  at  night,  Tilton  heard 
a  shght  sound  and  went  to  him,  and  he  died  in  a  few  mo- 
ments in  his  arms.  When  I  was  in  Taormina  a  few  years 
ago  I  asked  the  old  **custode"  if  he  remembered  Thomas 
Hotchkiss.  His  face  hghted  when  he  said  that  he  well  re- 
membered "Signor  Tommaso,"  and  also  "il  signor  inglese," 
meaning  Tilton.  Saying,  "I  will  show  you  where  he  lived 
and  died,"  he  led  me  to  a  small  stone  house  that  stands  on 
the  highest  point  of  the  theatre,  and  showed  me  the  room, 
now  used  as  a  museum  for  art  objects  found  in  the  place  and 
filled  with  delicate  broken  bas-rehefs,  fragments  of  statues 
and  marbles,  jars  and  other  ancient  bits — all  quiet  and 
peaceful,  the  windows  looking  out  over  the  wide  landscape 
that  he  knew  so  well,  a  fit  setting  for  the  spot  where  that 
fine  soul  passed  away.  He  fills  a  nameless  grave  at  Mes- 
sina, for  it  was  never  marked  by  a  stone  and  the  earth- 
quake has  probably  obfiterated  the  cemetery,  but  his  body 
has  mingled  with  the  soil  of  the  Italy  that  he  loved  and 
depicted  so  beautifully.  He  was  a  great  painter  and  it  is 
pathetic  that  so  few  know  anything  about  him,  not  even 
his  name. 

When  I  came  to  look  into  his  aff"airs  I  found  that  he 
had  some  debts  in  Rome,  so  I  had  an  auction  sale  to  which 
all  the  artists  flocked,  for  he  had  collected  many  valuable 
things  during  his  long  residence  in  Rome.  The  prices  ob- 
tained were  so  high  that  a  sufficient  sum  was  soon  realized 
to  pay  all  his  debts,  and  the  rest  of  his  things  were  sent  to 
New  York  and  sold  by  the  public  administrator.    As  Hotch- 



kiss  was  little  known  there,  they  sold  for  trilling  sums,  but 
this  made  no  diflerencc,  as  I  beheve  his  family  felt  so  bitterly 
toward  his  memory  that  they  decHncd  to  receive  the  money 
and  it  went  to  the  State. 

Among  his  effects  were  two  most  interesting  pictures, 
attributed  to  Piero  di  Cosimo.  The  National  Gallery  had 
offered  Hotchkiss  a  large  price  for  them,  which  he  had  re- 
fused, and  when  his  sale  was  held  in  Rome  many  of  the 
artists  hoped  to  buy  them,  and  were  much  disappointed 
to  find  that  they  were,  to  be  sent  to  New  York.  I  wrote 
to  my  friend  Robert  Gordon  to  look  out  for  them  and  buy 
them,  which  he  did,  and  presented  them  to  the  Metropolitan 
Museum.  This  was  during  the  reign  of  General  di  Cesnola, 
who  appreciated  tliem  so  little  that  he  put  them  in  the 
cellar,  where  they  remained  for  more  than  thirty  years  en- 
tirely forgotten,  until  about  ten  years  ago,  when  they  were 
discovered  and  brought  to  light,  being  heralded  as  a  re- 
markable discovery  and  making  quite  a  sensation.  No 
one  knew  where  they  had  come  from.  As  I  was  familiar 
with  them — they  had  hung  in  my  office  in  Rome  for  nearly 
a  year — I  wrote  an  account  of  them  in  the  New  York  Times, 
and  they  were  pronounced  by  experts  to  be  certainly  by 
Piero  di  Cosimo.  They  may  now  be  seen  in  the  Museum, 
and  are  in  excellent  preservation,  never  having  been  re- 
stored. They  are  painted  on  wooden  panels  each  about 
eight  feet  long;  one  a  woodland  scene,  with  satyrs  and 
monkeys,  and  the  other  a  rocky  shore,  with  figures  landing 
from  galleys.  Browning  lived  in  the  Palazzo  Barberini 
when  Hotchkiss  had  his  studio  there,  so  that  he  doubtless 
knew  Hotchkiss,  and  I  have  amused  myself  by  thinking 
that  his  poem,  "Over  the  sea  our  galleys  went,"  might  have 
been  inspired  by  one  of  these  interesting  pictures. 

Among  other  valuable  things  in  Hotchkiss's  studio  were 



several  very  large  and  beautiful  Etruscan  vases,  which  had 
been  acquired  by  him  in  a  curious  way.  He  happened  to 
be  sketching  on  the  Campagna  one  day,  near  where  some 
men  were  digging  out  an  old  tomb,  looking  for  buried 
treasure.  When  they  left  in  the  evening,  he  entered  the 
tomb  and  chanced  to  lean  against  the  wall,  which  gave  way 
and  disclosed  another  chamber  containing  these  magnificent 
vases.  He  immediately  returned  to  Rome,  got  a  cab,  drove 
out  there  and  secured  them.  These  vases  were  also  sent  to 
New  York  and  what  became  of  them  I  do  not  know ;  they 
were  probably  bought  by  some  one  who  did  not  reahze  their 
value,  which  was  a  pity,  as  they  were  museum  pieces. 

Speaking  of  the  Metropohtan  Museum  reminds  me 
of  a  peaceful  Sunday  morning  in  Rome,  when  I  was  sitting 
in  the  garden  of  the  Palazzo  Zuccari,  my  little  children 
playing  about  me — a  garden  surrounded  by  high  moss- 
grown  walls,  over  which  hung  orange  trees  covered  with 
fruit,  with  beds  of  purple  violets  under  them.  From  the 
garden  some  steps  led  down  into  the  Via  Gregoriana,  through 
a  green  door  set  in  the  open  mouth  of  a  huge  rococo  head; 
any  one  famihar  with  Rome  will  remember  it. 

I  had  been  thinking  for  some  time  that  an  art  museum 
in  New  York  was  a  sorely  needed  thing,  and  on  this  lovely 
morning  the  idea  came  to  me  that  it  would  be  a  good  plan 
to  write  to  Robert  Gordon,  in  New  York,  and  tell  him  what 
I  thought  a  museum  ought  to  be  and  urge  him  to  take  the 
matter  up;  so  I  inflicted  on  him  about  twenty  pages.  Not 
long  after,  I  heard  from  him  that  the  good  work  was  really 
to  be  begun,  and  when  I  returned  to  New  York  I  found 
the  Museum  already  estabhshed  in  the  old  Douglas  Cruger 
house  in  Fourteenth  Street.  Of  course,  when  I  wrote  to 
Gordon  the  project  was  already  in  the  air,  but  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  feel  that  I  was  one  of  the  first  to  suggest  it. 



It  was  a  pity  that  a  scheme  I  had  at  that  time  could 
not  have  been  carried  out.  I  suggested  that  a  room  in  the 
new  Museum  should  be  decorated  and  furnished  like  a  real 
"cinque  cento"  room,  where  various  articles  of  that  period 
could  be  arranged  as  if  they  were  actually  in  use.  As  I 
wrote  to  Mr.  Gordon:  "The  ordinary  museum  displays 
its  treasures  in  a  white-walled  room,  with  huge  windows 
letting  in  a  blaze  of  light;  here  in  a  row  of  prosaic  glass 
cases  the  poor  antiques  lie  and  shine  like  flowers  torn  up 
by  the  roots." 

Such  rooms  as  I  had  in  mind,  showing  the  every-day 
life  of  a  period,  are  to  be  seen  in  many  museums  now;  but 
if  the  Metropolitan  had  taken  up  my  idea  then,  and  lx)ught 
the  necessary  fittings,  such  as  woodwork,  stained  glass, 
tapestry,  etc.,  many  rare  and  wonderful  things  could  have 
been  secured — such  objets  d'art  were  cheap  fifty  years  ago. 

Mr.  Gordon  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Metropolitan 
Museum  and  the  treasurer  for  many  years.  He  is  one  of 
my  oldest  friends.  In  a  letter  I  got  from  him  two  or  three 
years  ago.  he  mentions  that  "the  first  dollar  ever  given  to 
the  Museum"  had  been  given  by  him.  Not  long  ago  he 
gave  the  Museum  a  fine  picture  by  Wyant,  at  the  same 
time  presenting  a  beautiful  picture  by  Sanford  Gilford  to 
the  Century  Club,  of  which  he  is  a  member.  Mr.  Gordon, 
Joseph  H.  Choate,  and  Theodore  Weston  are  the  only  ones 
left  of  the  original  founders  of  the  Museum. 

In  1869,  Rome  was  the  Mecca  of  American  artists  and 
there  was  a  large  colony  of  them  there,  many  of  whom  were 
very  successful,  as  American  art  was  then  the  fashion. 
Among  the  painters  were  Elihu  Vedder,  Charles  Caryl 
Coleman,  William  Haseltinc,  Charles  Dix,  George  H.  ^'ewcll, 
George  Inness,  T.  Buchanan  Read,  Frederick  Crown in- 
shield,    William    Graham,    William    Gedney    Buncc,    John 



RoIIin  Tilton,  George  Healy,  and  Messrs.  Freeman,  Terry, 
and  Chapman,  about  most  of  whom  I  shall  have  something 
to  say  in  detail.  The  two  last  named  were  members  of 
the  old  Sketch  Club  of  New  York,  out  of  which  grew  the 
Century  Club. 

Hcaly  painted  a  nice  portrait  of  my  little  Margaret 
in  Rome,  more  successful  than  his  portraits  of  children 
usually  were,  though  he  painted  men  well.  She  did  not 
mind  sitting,  for  he  kept  her  amused  in  all  sorts  of  funny 
ways,  such  as  wearing  a  pen-wiper  in  the  shape  of  a  doll 
on  top  of  his  head  all  the  time  he  was  painting.^  Healy 
painted  any  number  of  celebrities,  among  others  Pio  Nono. 
I  got  Mrs.  Freeman  to  take  a  cast  of  little  Margaret's  hand 
in  plaster  and  I  have  it  still — a  dear  little  hand. 

The  sculptors  included  William  W.  Story,  Randolph 
Rogers,  Franklin  Simmons,  Miss  Harriet  Hosmer,  and  many 
others— the  late  lamented  Rhinehart  being  the  most  promis- 
ing and  talented  of  them  all.  In  fact,  there  were  so  many 
of  them  that  we  thought  there  was  to  be  a  great  revival 
of  sculpture  in  America,  but  none  of  it  came  to  much. 
Mozier,  the  American  sculptor,  who  lived  in  Rome  for  about 
twenty  years,  died  while  he  was  crossing  the  St.  Gothard 
Pass  and  was  buried  in  Rome  while  I  was  there. 

Miss  Hosmer  was  a  pupil  of  Gibson,  the  famous  Eng- 
lish sculptor.  In  1859  I  ^^'^^^^  to  his  studio  in  Rome  to  see 
his  "Tinted  Venus,"  that  everybody  was  talking  about. 
It  was  making  a  great  sensation  in  the  art  world  and  as 
I  was  too  young  not  to  be  influenced  by  the  general  opinion 
I  was  much  impressed.  It  was  colored  so  like  life  that  when 
the  man  took  off  the  cloth  the  creature  really  seemed  to 
be  alive — it  must  have  been  an  awful  thing!  Gibson,  I 
fancy,  made  stacks  of  money  out  of  it,  for  he  charged  seven 
hundred  pounds  for  cutting  a  copy. 

Randolph  Rogers  was  in  his  glory  in  1869,  a  handsome, 



shaggy  man  with  a  leonine  head.  He  had  lately  made  a 
statue  of  Nydia,  the  blind  girl  of  Pompeii,  which  had  a 
great  popular  success,  particularly  among  Americans,  who 
ordered  many  replicas  for  their  houses.  She  was  depicted 
as  listening  intently,  groping  her  way  with  a  staff.  I  once- 
went  to  his  studio  and  saw  seven  Nydias,  all  in  a  row,  all 
listening,  all  groping,  and  seven  Italian  marble-cutters  at 
work  cutting  them  out.     It  was  a  gruesome  sight. 

But  Rogers's  most  profitable  trade  was  in  soldiers'  monu- 
ments; after  the  Civil  War  he  had  orders  from  towns  all 
over  the  United  States.  These  monuments  were  all  pretty 
much  alike,  usually  consisting  of  a  shaft  in  the  centre  with 
realistic  military  figures  at  the  four  corners,  and  as  they 
were  situated  far  apart  and  were  not  likely  to  be  compared 
with  one  another  the  figures  also  were  generally  "much 
of  a  muchness,"  but  could  always  be  distinguished  from 
each  other  by  the  weapons  they  carried.  Infantry,  for 
instance,  was  armed  with  a  rifle;  cavalry  with  a  sabre; 
artillery  with  a  rammer;  while  a  naval  hero  was  supported 
by  an  anchor,  or  some  other  nautical  emblem.  It  was  part 
of  my  duty,  when  a  monument  was  finished,  to  examine 
it  and  give  a  consular  certificate,  stating  that  it  was  the 
work  of  an  American  artist  resident  abroad,  in  order  that 
it  might  pass  through  the  United  States  Custom  House 
free  of  duty.  So  Rogers  would  show  me  the  work  and  give 
me  the  necessary  description;  but  even  he  himself  was 
sometimes  confused  as  to  the  rank  or  calling  of  the  various 
figures,  particularly  if  they  were  not  yet  armed  with  their 
distinctive  weapons.  I  remember  his  once  being  in  doubt 
and  calling  to  his  attendant,  "Giuseppe,  what  is  this?" 
Whereupon  Giuseppe  promptly  supplied  the  vacant  hand 
with  a  rammer  and  Rogers  said:  "Ah,  I  see,  it  is  artillery, 
it  is  all  right." 

But  he  was  a  good  fellow,  perfectly  frank  and  straight- 



fonvard  about  his  work,  with  so  many  pleasant  qualities 
that  one  readily  pardoned  him  for  treating  his  work  rather 
as  a  trade  than  an  art.  He  was,  I  think,  entirely  devoid 
of  artistic  feehng  in  regard  to  antique  things  and  freely  ex- 
pressed his  pity  for  all  of  us  who  were  wasting  our  time  and 
money  in  collecting  such  "objets  d'art."  I  remember  once 
showing  him  a  fifteenth  century  plaque,  decorated  with  a 
graceful  little  figure,  beautifully  posed  and  freely  drawn 
by  some  old  painter,  and  he  criticised  it  mercilessly,  seeing 
no  beauty  in  it. 

"Look  at  that  leg!"  he  said.  "How  badly  drawn  it 
is !" — and,  in  a  way,  he  was  right,  but  to  one  with  the  eye 
of  an  artist  it  was  charming. 

Once  at  Perugia,  where  Rogers  w^as  spending  the  sum- 
mer with  a  little  colony  of  American  artists,  Coleman, 
Yewell,  Vedder,  and  others,  all  of  whom  were  enthusiastic 
collectors  of  "roba  antica,"  he  and  George  Inness  picked 
up  what  they  considered  the  most  hideous  piece  of  old  pot- 
tery imaginable  and  with  much  formality  presented  it, 
as  a  joke,  to  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  party;  but  it  turned 
out  quite  the  other  way — she  was  delighted  to  have  it. 

Many  of  my  friends  had  studios  in  the  Via  Margutta, 
a  little  street  running  along  the  foot  of  the  Pincian  Hill, 
where  there  was  a  settlement  of  artists  from  all  parts  of 
the  world.  I  painted  at  times  in  the  studios  of  Coleman 
and  Vedder  and  worked  in  the  evenings  in  the  life  school, 
called  "Gigi's  Academy,"  which  was  a  good-sized,  semi- 
circular amphitheatre,  seating  about  a  hundred  students. 
Gigi  was  the  proprietor — I  never  knew  his  surname — but 
all  he  did  was  to  exact  his  fee  each  month  and  provide  a 
good  light,  heat,  and  a  model,  and  also — for  two  soldi — 
large  hunks  of  coarse  bread,  called  "moulika,"  for  rubbing 
out  marks.     The  model  was  sometimes  a  young  woman 



clothed  only  in  a  mask,  or  sometimes  without  it;  sometimes 
a  naked  Arab,  or  a  peasant  boy.  We  had  no  regular  ar- 
tistic criticism,  but  worked  out  our  own  salvation  as  best 
we  could,  except  that  we  profited  by  the  very  frank  opinions 
of  our  neighbors,  usually  more  wholesome  than  compli- 
mentary. We  had,  however,  the  very  real  advantage  of 
seeing  the  work  of  others,  some  of  it  very  fine.  Many  great 
painters  had  w^orked  there,  among  them  Fortuny  and  Vil- 
legas.  Fred  Crowninshield  was  usually  my  companion 
on  these  occasions;  he  would  stop  at  my  house  in  the  eve- 
ning and  we  would  go  off  to  Gigi's  together.  I  remember 
a  pleasant  party  that  Mrs.  Crowninshield  gave  one  winter, 
with  a  puppet  show  and  ''Jarley's  Waxworks,"  in  which 
the  part  of  Mrs.  Jarley  was  taken  by  Miss  Louisa  Alcott, 
who  made  most  amusing  impromptu  speeches  alx)ut  the 
different  characters.  Crowninshield  was  Director  of  the 
American  Academy  in  Rome  for  some  years. 

Elihu  Vedder,  whose  studio  was  at  33  Via  Margutta, 
was  then  as  always  a  most  dehghtful  companion— witty, 
unusual,  and  interesting.  When  an  American  visitor  to 
his  studio  w^as  guilty  of  the  usual  trite  remark,  "I  don't 
know  anything  about  art,  but  I  know  what  I  like,"  Vedder 
replied,  *'So  do  the  beasts  that  perish !"  Mrs.  Vedder  was 
an  exceedingly  nice  woman  and  they  were  a  devoted  couple, 
she  being  very  capable  and  taking  excellent  care  of  his  af- 
fairs, but  at  the  same  time  giving  him  the  utmost  frecnJom 
of  action.  When  he  visited  New  York  he  sometimes  left 
his  family  in  Rome,  and  he  told  me  that  once  when  he  was 
about  to  leave  for  America  his  wife  said: 

*'Now,  Ved,  you  are  going  to  New  York;  do  just  as 
you  like  there,  but  please  don't  come  home  and  hoast  about 


In  New  York  his  headquarters  were  always  at  the  Ccn- 



tury  Club  and  almost  any  evening  he  could  be  seen  there, 
surrounded  by  a  circle  of  friends  far  into  the  night.  Some- 
one asked  him  to  have  a  drink — his  answer  was  a  conun- 
drum, "Why  am  I  like  a  Kleinert's  dress-shield?  Because 
I  am  ahvays  dry  and  absorbent." 

Charles  Caryl  Coleman  with  his  curhng  hair  and  hand- 
some face,  was  a  striking  figure.  He  was  a  good  friend, 
ahvays  generous  to  any  one  ill  or  in  trouble.  His  brother 
Caryl  belonged  for  a  year  or  two  to  the  Trappists,  that 
strictest  of  orders  that  hves  in  perpetual  silence. 

As  Charles  Coleman  was  a  great  collector  of  "oggetti 
di  antichita,"  his  studio  was  a  perfect  museum  of  beautiful 
things — tapestries,  rich  stuffs,  china,  carved  furniture, 
Roman  and  Grecian  glass,  rare  marbles,  and  old  pictures. 
They  said  that  if  he  sold  a  picture  for  a  thousand  dollars,  on 
the  strength  of  it  he  immediately  salhed  out  to  an  antiquity 
shop,  where  he  had  aheady  coveted  some  object  or  other, 
and  spent  two  thousand  dollars  on  account  of  the  one  he 
had  on  hand.  His  studio  was  also  in  the  Via  Margutta, 
high  up,  with  an  outdoor  gallery  leading  to  it  and  with 
windows  on  the  one  side  looking  out  on  the  Pincian  Hill, 
with  its  lovely  umbrella  pines  and  its  winding  marble  steps 
and  balustrades,  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  del  Popolo 
and  the  Porta  del  Popolo,  designed  by  Michael  Angelo; 
while  from  the  other  there  was  the  lovely  distant  view  of 
the  Campagna,  gay  with  poppies  and  pink  almond  trees, 
interspersed  with  picturesque  bits  of  ruin. 

I  was  one  day  sketching  one  of  these  ruins,  a  small  tem- 
ple or  tomb,  the  stucco  a  dehcious  yellowish  tint,  with  a 
bright  spot  of  white  in  the  centre  of  the  apse-hke  top.  An 
almond-tree  in  bloom  hung  over  it,  and  beyond  was  a  jum- 
ble of  dehcate  flowers  and  a  touch  of  tender  blue  sky.  I 
was  busily  absorbed  when  I  looked  up  and  saw  George 



Inness  and  T.  Buchanan  Read.  They  had  just  finished 
lunching  together  and  were  in  good  spirits.  Inness  re- 
marked, "Your  high  light  in  the  arch  is  not  bright  enough." 
So,  handing  him  my  palette  and  brush,  I  said,  "Do  it  your- 
self then,"  and  without  taking  off  his  kid  gloves  he  took 
the  brush,  mixed  up  some  NapIes-yellow  and  white,  steadied 
himself  and  gave  one  dab  just  in  the  right  spot.  I  sold 
that  sketch  later  for  a  hundred  dollars,  but  whether  it  was 
because  of  Inness's  master  touch  I  never  knew.  He  was 
a  small,  ner\ous  man,  with  ragged  hair  and  beard,  and  a 
vivacious,  intense  manner,  an  excellent  talker  and  much 
occupied  with  theories  and  methods  of  painting,  and  also 
of  religion.  I  once  met  him  in  the  White  Mountains  and 
we  spent  several  hours  talking  together,  or  rather  he  talked 
and  I  listened,  about  a  theory-  he  had  of  color  intertwined  in 
a  most  ingenious  way  with  Swedenborgianism,  in  which  he 
was  a  devout  believer.  Toward  the  latter  part  of  the  eve- 
ning I  became  quite  dizzy,  and  which  was  color  and  which 
religion  I  could  hardly  tell !  But,  on  the  whole,  he  was 
an  interesting  man  and  undoubtedly  one  of  the  first  of  Amer- 
ican painters.  Unlike  many  great  artists  he  was  amenable 
to  criticism,  and  when  some  friend  suggested  that  he  might 
change  a  sky  he  would  promptly  scrape  out  a  gray  one  and 
tr\-  a  blue.  Crowninshield  said  that  when  Inness  painted 
according  to  his  theories  the  result  was  sometimes  queer, 
but  when  he  trusted  altogether  to  his  feeling  his  work  was 
wonderfully  fine. 

T.  Buchanan  Read,  the  "painter  poet,"  author  of 
"Sheridan's  Ride,"  was  another  picturesque  figure  who 
led  a  gay  and  varied  Roman  life  and  amused  himself  by 
doing  a  good  many  unusual  things;  for  instance,  on  Queen 
Victoria's  birthday  he  sent  her  a  long  congratulatory  tele- 
gram in  poetical  language,  and  received  a  gracious  acknowl- 



cdgment  from  the  master  of  her  household,  who  of  course 
did  not  know  T.  B.  R.,  but  wanted  to  be  on  the  safe  side. 
Another  time  he  was  fishing  with  a  gay  party  at  Tivoli 
and  sent  Prince  Humbert  a  basket  of  trout,  for  which  he 
got  the  same  sort  of  royal  thanks. 

Read  had  painted  a  portrait  of  General  Sheridan  on 
his  black  charger,  and  when  the  general,  accompanied  by 
Colonel  Forsythe,  visited  Rome  we  gave  them  a  dinner 
which  was  attended  by  most  of  the  Americans  in  Rome 
and  several  Enghsh  army  officers.  General  Sheridan  was 
a  man  of  few  words  but  they  were  brisk  and  to  the  point. 
He  had  grown  stout  and  rather  breathless;  indeed,  his 
clothes  seemed  too  tight  for  him.  Forsythe  was  a  fine,  dash- 
ing fellow  and  made  quite  an  amusing  speech  at  the  dinner. 
After  complimenting  the  British  officers,  he  spoke  of  being 
once  stationed  on  the  Canadian  frontier  near  a  British  out- 
post. "Their  officers,"  he  said,  *' would  come  to  see  us 
and  we  would  give  them  mint  juleps  and  knock  'em  higher 
than  a  kite;  then  we  would  go  over  to  them  and  they  would 
give  us  double-headed  ale  and  brandy  mixed  and  knock 
us  higher  than  a  kite.     It  was  grand!" 

General  Sherman  also  came  to  Rome  while  I  was  there, 
with  Fred  Grant,  General  Grant's  son,  who  had  lately 
graduated  at  West  Point.  I  invited  Grant  to  go  to  the 
hunt  and  offered  him  a  horse,  but  he  asked  what  sort  of 
saddle  he  would  have  to  ride  and  when  I  told  him  that  we 
only  had  English  saddles,  he  suggested  that  he  might  ride 
bareback.  I  said  that  I  didn't  think  it  would  do  for  the 
son  of  the  President  of  the  United  States  to  appear  in  that 
bucolic  fashion.  It  seemed  strange  to  me  that  a  West  Point 
man  had  not  been  trained  to  ride  on  any  kind  of  saddle. 

We  saw  a  good  deal  of  General  Sherman,  a  fine  old  fel- 
low and  very  charming  in  a  bluff,  quaint  way;    he  often 



came  to  our  house.  Augustus  Saint  Gaudcns  had  a  favorite 
story  about  the  general.  When  he  was  modclhn^  the  gen- 
eral's bust  he  was  also  making  a  bas-rehcf  of  Robert  L<3uis 
Stevenson,  and  he  told  the  general  that  he  would  like  to 
introduce  him,  whereupon  the  general  asked: 

"Was  he  one  of  my  boys?" 

"No,"  said  Saint  Gaudens;  "he  is  a  celebrated  writer, 
the  author  of  'Jekyll  and  Hyde.'  " 

"Oh!"  said  the  general,  "he's  no  fool  then;  I'd  like  to 
meet  him,"  and  when  Stevenson  came  in  he  shook  him 
warmly  by  the  hand  and  said:  "Glad  to  meet  you,  sir! 
Were  you  one  of  my  boys?" 

General  Robert  Anderson,  "the  hero  of  Fort  Sumter," 
was  another  mihtary  celebrity  who  was  in  Rome  one  winter 
with  his  family.  The  general  was  deehning  rapidly  in  heahh, 
but  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  him  and  found  him  a  most  lovable 
man,  simple,  honest,  and  straightforward.  I  went  to  the 
railway  station  to  bid  him  good-by  and  that  was  the  last 
I  saw  of  him,  as  he  died  shortly  afterward.  Among  the 
many  fine  things  that  he  did  for  his  country,  and  not  the 
least,  was  the  founding  of  the  Soldiers'  Home  in  Wash- 
ington, which  was  chiefly  due  to  his  efforts. 

One  of  the  best  books  that  have  ever  been  written  about 
the  every-day  life  of  Rome  is  the  "Roba  di  Roma"  of  Wil- 
liam Wetmore  Story,  giving  as  it  does  the  history  of  many 
ancient  customs,  festivals,  and  traits  of  the  people  which 
were  still  prevalent  in  the  Rome  of  his  day  and  mine,  but 
which  have  now  entirely  disappeared.  He  was  a  man  ()f 
varied  talents,  none  of  them  buried  in  a  napkm.  His 
statue  of  Cleopatra  may  be  seen  in  the  Metropolitan  .Mu- 
seum; he  was  a  painter  and  a  poet;  but  he  had  begun  life 
as  a  lawyer  and  wrote  law  books  that  are  still  quoted  as 
authority,  and  I  have  heard  that  he  was  once  a  disciple  of 



transcendental  philosophy  at  Brook  Farm.  To  be  sure,  if 
one  spoke  to  a  sculptor  about  Story's  work,  he  was  apt  to 
praise  his  writing  or  painting,  while  if  you  mentioned  his 
verse  to  a  poet  he  fought  shy  of  the  subject  and  talked  of 
his  sculpture  instead — but  taking  him  all  in  all,  he  was  un- 
doubtedly a  many-sided  man  of  talent,  though  I  think  that 
his  fame  will  rest  more  on  the  admirable  ''Roba  di  Roma" 
than  on  all  his  other  works.  I  remember,  many  years  after 
the  time  of  which  I  am  writing,  I  was  in  Paris  and  happened 
to  be  calling  on  Mrs.  McCormick — a  very  charming  woman, 
by  the  way,  the  wife  of  the  McCormick  of  reaper  fame — 
when  Cabanel  came  in.  He  had  painted  a  portrait  of  Mr. 
McCormick,  who  had  subsequently  been  decorated  by  the 
French  Government  with  the  Legion  of  Honor,  so  the  por- 
trait had  been  sent  to  Paris  from  America  in  order  that 
the  artist  might  paint  the  red  ribbon  in  the  buttonhole  of 
the  coat.  Cabanel  was  now  calling  to  discuss  the  matter 
with  Mrs.  McCormick.  By  way  of  making  conversation, 
she  told  Cabanel  that  her  distinguished  countryman,  Mr. 
W.  W.  Story,  was  then  in  Paris  and  asked  if  he  had  met 
him.  Cabanel,  with  many  apologies,  was  compelled  to 
acknowledge  that  he  had  never  heard  of  him. 

"Not  heard  of  him!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  McCormick. 
"Why  he  is  a  wonderful  sculptor,  a  great  painter,  a  poet, 
a  lawyer  of  distinction!"  etc.,  etc. 

Cabanel  listened  attentively  until  she  had  closed  her 
panegyric,  then  throwing  up  both  hands  exclaimed,  "Trop 
de  choses,  madame,  trop  de  choses!" 

George  Butler  was  a  good  painter  of  portraits — and, 
incidentally,  of  cats.  An  athletic  fellow,  with  a  beautiful 
figure  and  handsome  face,  he  was  a  remarkably  fine  fencer, 
although  he  had  lost  his  right  arm  at  Gettysburg.  He  used 
to  fence  in  some  resort  frequented  by  Italian  officers  and 



was  generally  regarded  as  one  of  the  best  swordsmen  in 
Rome.  Now  it  happened  that  his  friend,  Charles  Caryl 
Coleman,  had  an  enemy — why,  I  need  not  mention — and 
this  enemy  and  his  friends  formed  a  conspiracy  against 
Coleman,  planning  to  get  him  involved  in  a  duel  so  that 
they  might  take  his  hfe.  One  evening  Coleman  and  Butler 
wTrc  at  the  opera  with  some  ladies  and,  in  leaving,  the  man 
jostled  Coleman  in  an  insulting  way.  Coleman  said  to 

**I  cannot  see  you  now,  as  I  am  with  ladies,  but  I  will 
see  you  later." 

After  taking  the  ladies  home,  Butler  and  Coleman  went 
to  the  Caffe  di  Roma,  on  the  Corso,  and  the  enemy  was 
there.  As  they  left  the  caffe  he  followed  and  they  turned 
and  met  him.  It  was  a  dark  night,  and  mistaking  Butler 
for  Coleman  he  slapped  his  face,  whereupon  Butler  im- 
mediately knocked  him  down.  The  fellow^  jumped  up  and 
demanded  satisfaction,  but  when  they  got  into  the  hght  and 
he  saw  his  mistake,  and  found  that  he  had  to  deal  with  the 
best  fencer  in  Rome,  he  wanted  to  apologize  and  get  out  of 
it,  but  Butler  said: 

"  No,  you  don't !     I  have  received  a  deadly  insult,  and 
we  must  fight;   our  weapons  are  sw^ords." 

So  they  fought.  Butler  soon  saw  that  he  had  his 
antagonist  at  his  mercy,  but  he  did  not  want  to  kill  him, 
and  as  the  man  wore  glasses  he  thought  it  would  be  a  good 
idea  to  pick  them  off  without  hurting  him;  but  in  doing 
this  he  did  not  quite  calculate  his  distance  and  almost  ran 
his  sword  through  his  opponent's  skull,  though  it  did  not 
wound  him  mortally.     Coleman  was  troubled  no  more. 

One  time  in  Paris  Butler  was  insulted  in  some  way  by 
a  Frenchman,  and  in  the  row  which  followed  he  was  ar- 
rested and  taken  to  court.    As  soon  as  the  judge  saw  this 



splendid-looking  man,  before  he  allowed  the  complainant 
to  offer  any  evidence  whatever,  he  said  to  him: 

"Sir,  I  see  that  you  have  lost  your  arm — how  did  it 

"In  battle,"  replied  Butler. 

"That  is  enough,  sir,"  the  judge  said.  "You  are  dis- 
charged, honorably  discharged.    The  case  is  closed." 

Butler  had  great  ability  as  a  portrait-painter,  but  it 
was  difficult  to  pin  him  down  to  work;  though  he  began 
a  portrait  with  much  enthusiasm,  he  seldom  finished  it. 
On  one  occasion  he  went  to  paint  a  gentleman's  portrait 
at  his  country  place  and  the  summer  passed  very  pleasantly, 
but  the  picture  was  never  done. 

He  married  a  Capri  girl,  a  dark  beauty.  They  came  to 
America  and  settled  on  a  farm  in  Westchester  County, 
where  they  made  ItaHan  cheese;  and  I  am  told  that  Butler 
was  to  be  seen  there,  pottering  about  the  place,  followed 
by  a  large  brood  of  handsome  black-eyed  children.  He 
became  a  Romanist,  to  please  his  wife  I  suppose;  resigned 
from  all  his  clubs,  including  the  Century,  and  from  the 
Academy  of  Design;  gave  up  painting,  and  retired  to  his 

He  once  stayed  with  us  at  Danskammer,  my  place  on 
the  Hudson;  he  arrived  without  any  baggage;  he  had  not 
been  shaved  for  a  week,  and  wore  a  yellow  flannel  shirt. 
We  enjoyed  his  society  immensely,  for  he  was  most  enter- 
taining, and  his  absence  of  luggage  did  not  embarrass  him 
in  the  least — I  provided  him  with  a  razor,  a  night-shirt, 
and  a  tooth-brush,  and  he  was  perfectly  content.  In  short, 
he  was  a  real  Bohemian  and  entirely  irresponsible,  and  if 
one  hinted  at  any  want  of  forethought  on  his  part  he  was 
so  amused,  and  looked  at  one  with  such  a  frank  and 
sweet  expression  on  his    handsome   face,  that  one  could 



not  but  forgive  him  at  once.  Every  one  liked  George 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  1871  that  I  first  heard  the  name 
of  Augustus  Saint  Gaudens,  to  my  mind  the  greatest  of 
American  sculptors;  he  was  then  very  young  and  quite  un- 
known. I  shall  tell  in  another  chapter  of  our  first  meeting 
and  our  lifelong  friendship. 

John  Rolhn  Tilton  was  one  of  the  best-known  painters 
in  Rome  at  that  time.  He  was  an  admirer  of  Turner  and 
his  pictures  reminded  one  of  that  great  artist's  manner, 
that  has  been  irreverently  described  as 

"A  foreground  all  of  golden  dirt, 
The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt." 

Tilton's  pictures  were  very  popular  and  he  admired 
them  greatly  himself. 

"Why,"  he  said  to  me,  "my  pictures  are  so  luminous 
that  they  shine  in  the  dark,"  and  I  think  that  he  really 
believed  it.  Meeting  him  in  the  street  on  his  return  from 
Egypt,  I  asked  him  what  it  was  like.  "  Do  you  love  cream  ?  " 
he  asked — I  confessed  that  I  did.  "Then  you  know  what 
Egypt  is,"  he  said,  "it  is  like  cream  !" 

His  studio,  overlooking  the  beautiful  Villa  Ludovisi,  had 
windows  opening  on  a  long  veranda  through  which  the 
passers-by  could  see  into  his  studio.  Some  visitors  hap- 
pened to  glance  in  and  spied  Tilton  with  his  coat  off,  look- 
ing rather  dishevelled,  sweeping  out  his  room.  Thev 
knocked  at  the  door,  there  was  a  perceptible  pause  and 
a  "Come  in,"  and  there  he  was,  lying  on  a  sofa,  dressed 
in  a  velvet  coat  and  reading  a  volume  of  Brownmg. 

Once  during  the  carnival,  Arthur  Dexter,  o(  Boston, 
a  good  deal  of  a  wag  and  a  delightful  man,  disguised  him- 



self  in  domino  and  mask  and,  accompanied  by  a  lady  well  | 
known  in  Rome  and  also  masked,  paid  several  surprise 
visits  to  his  friends.  One  of  these  friends  was  Tilton,  whose 
apartment  in  the  Palazzo  Barberini  was  on  an  upper  floor 
and  reached  by  a  beautiful  broad,  winding  marble  stair- 
way, that  seemed  almost  endless,  and  with  steps  so  low 
that  it  was  nearly  an  inclined  plane.  Dexter  rang  the  bell 
at  the  door  and  Tihon  opened  it,  clothed  only  in  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  but  without  a  word  they  seized  him, 
one  on  each  side,  and  rushed  him  like  lightning  all  the  way 
down  the  winding  stairs  and  left  him  shivering  in  the  cold 
courtyard.  He  did  not  recognize  them  and  never  knew 
who  they  were. 

Like  several  other  European  rivers,  the  Tiber  has  a  bad 
habit  of  overflowing  its  banks,  and  flooding  all  the  lower 
part  of  the  city  with  its  yellow  tide.  One  of  the  worst  floods 
that  ever  visited  Rome  was  in  the  last  days  of  1870,  just 
after  Christmas. 

Mrs.  Armstrong  to  her  mother,  Mrs.  Neilson,  New  York 

Rome,  December  28,  1870. 
**.  .  .  We  have  had  a  great  deal  of  rain  and  the  day 
before  yesterday  the  Tiber  rose  and  began  to  overflow  the 
Ripetta,  the  street  that  lies  right  on  the  shore  of  the  river, 
and  today  the  Corso  and  the  Via  Condotti  look  like  streets 
in  Venice.  All  day  the  line  of  water  has  been  creeping  nearer 
to  the  Piazza  di  Spagna.  The  Piazza  del  Popolo  is  an  im- 
mense lake,  the  water  must  be  eight  feet  deep,  and  the 
plain  about  the  city  is  all  covered  with  water.  We  are  for- 
tunate in  being  high  and  dry,  and  as  our  street  door  is  on 
a  level  with  the  tops  of  the  houses  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
we  are  in  no  danger,  even  if  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  should 



be  covered  up.  This  morning  it  is  storming  again !  We 
have  bought  meat  for  today  and  tomorrow,  and  as  much 
macaroni,  rice  and  potatoes  as  we  could  ^^vt,  and  wc  can 
live  on  that  for  a  few  days,  but  the  suffering  in  the  lower 
part  of  the  city  is  dreadful.  The  poor  people  shut  up  in 
their  houses  are  crying  at  the  windows,  and  boats  are  going 
about  carrying  food  for  them  from  the  Government.  In 
some  places  the  water  is  up  to  the  second  stories,  and  they 
say  many  persons  have  been  drowned.  Nearly  all  the  shops 
are  ruined, — imagine  Broadway  with  six  feet  of  water  in 
it  and  all  the  shops  soaked !  The  American  gentlemen, 
Maitland,  Mr.  Nevin  and  others,  are  raising  money  and 
forming  a  committee  for  immediate  relief.  The  road  be- 
tween Rome  and  Florence  is  broken  up  and  poor  Henrietta 
King,  who  was  on  her  way  here  to  make  a  visit  to  Mrs. 
Van  Schaick,  has  I  suppose  had  to  go  back  to  Florence. 
The  priests  are  in  a  great  state  of  exultation,  and  tell  the 
people  it  is  a  judgment  for  the  King  having  taken  the  city." 

The  lions  that  crouch  at  the  base  of  the  Egyptian  obelisk 
in  the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  spouting  water  in  long  streams 
from  their  mouths  into  the  basins  beneath,  looked  comical 
during  the  flood,  for  the  spouting  streams  fell  into  the  sur- 
rounding waste  of  water  only  a  few  inches  below  their 
mouths.  Some  friends  of  ours — I  think  they  were  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Benjamin  Morris,  she  was  Sally  Post,— staying 
at  the  Hotel  de  Russic  which  fronted  on  the  Piazza  del 
Popolo,  came  to  lunch  with  us  and  when  they  returned 
to  their  hotel  the  water  had  risen  so  high  that  they  were 
unable  to  enter  the  front  door,  but  had  to  get  ladders  and 
go  in  from  the  slope  of  the  Pincian  Hill  through  the  rear 



Mrs.  Armstrong  to  Her  Mother 

Rome,  January  2,  1871. 

"...  A  great  event  happened  last  week,  the  King 
has  actually  made  his  entry  into  Rome.  He  came  down 
without  preparation  or  ceremony,  and  brought  a  large 
sum,  I  believe  two  hundred  thousand  francs,  for  the  suf- 
ferers from  the  flood.  His  coming  at  this  time  produced 
a  very  good  impression  on  the  people,  showing  as  it  did 
his  sympathy  and  interest  in  them.  He  arrived  on  Satur- 
day morning  and  returned  that  same  night  to  Florence. 
He  drove  through  the  streets  and  went  to  church.  We 
had  an  excellent  view  of  him,  but  the  procession  was  very 
little,  only  his  body-guard  on  horseback  and  a  few  car- 
riages; but  the  historical  event  is  a  great  one,  and  he  is 
the  first  crowned  head  I  have  ever  seen.  He  is  even  uglier 
than  his  pictures  make  him. — I  was  interrupted  by  a  visit 
from  Prince  George  of  Sohms,  who  although  a  prince  is 
in  no  other  way  diff'erent  from  any  other  fat  amiable  Dutch- 

The  city  is  in  the  most  dreadful  state  you  can  imagine, 
with  an  immense  quantity  of  mud  all  over  the  streets.  In 
the  Ghetto  several  houses  fell,  and  nearly  everything  there 
is  destroyed.  In  Doctor  Valery's  house  the  water  came 
up  seven  steps  of  the  stairs — you  know  the  front  door  here 
is  on  a  level  with  the  pavement  and  the  hall  and  stairs  are 
almost  like  the  street.  The  Americans  have  contributed 
nearly  twelve  thousand  francs  for  the  suff'erers.  Bessie 
Field,  a  daughter  of  Hickson  Field,  who  married  an  Italian, 
had  a  baby  born  on  the  day  of  the  flood.  They  live  in  a 
palace  on  the  Corso  and  it  was  with  great  difficulty  that 
Dr.  Valery  could  get  there,  taking  a  boat  first  from  his 
own  house  and  then  a  cart  to  reach  her.     The  nurse  would 



not  go  to  her.  It  was  an  inconvenient  time,  was  it  not, 
for  the  little  stranger  to  make  its  appearance  in  the  world  ! 
Our  washerwoman's  assistant  was  shut  in  her  house  for 
two  days  without  food,  the  children  crying  for  bread.  The 
water  came  into  their  rooms  in  the  night  and  they  had  only 
time  to  escape  up-stairs.  Everything  they  had  was  de- 

We  had  a  pleasant  New  Year's  Eve,  though  not  like 
our  delightful  old  ones  at  home,  with  the  dining  room  table 
covered  with  presents.  We  dined  at  Mrs.  Haseltine's, 
a  party  of  fourteen,  and  Dr.  Nevin  came  in  afterwards.  Wc 
had  a  very  elegant  dinner  which  lasted  Lite,  and  wc  all 
waited  to  see  the  old  year  out.  Just  before  twel\e  hot  punch 
was  handed  and  we  all  stood  glass  in  hand  until  the  stroke 
of  midnight,  when  we  all  drank  our  punch  and  wished  each 
other  a  Happy  New  Year. 

You  speak  of  the  three  old  ladies,  Mrs.  Anthon,  Mrs. 
Baker,  and  Aunt  Helen  Stuyvesant  coming  upstairs  to 
see  Lillie,  what  would  you  think  of  going  up  to  the  fourth 
story  to  see  a  friend!  Mrs.  Haseltinc,  for  instance,  lives 
on  the  fourth  story,  up  a  hundred  and  four  steps,  and  Mrs. 
Tilton  up  a  hundred  and  fifty,  on  a  large  circular  stairway, 
and  Mrs.  Chapman  has  about  ninety. 

General  Sheridan  called  here  the  other  day,  and  we 
went  to  a  reception  given  for  him.  A  number  of  American 
gentlemen  are  to  give  him  a  dinner  this  week  at  the  club. 
Poor  Mr.  Coleman,  the  artist,  has  smallpox.  Little  .\Lir- 
garet  has  named  her  new  rocking  horse  Umberto,  after 
Prince  Humbert." 

In  order  to  help  the  Relief  Fund  for  which  I  was 
treasurer,  we  decided  to  give  a  fancy  ball,  the  tickets  to 
be  sold  and  the  proceeds  to  go  to  the  fund.    A  c<Hnmittcc 



was  formed  to  manage  the  ball,  and  I  was  made  chairman. 
The  other  managers  were  Frederick  Crowninshield,  Charles 
Caryl  Coleman,  Captain  Danyell,  an  ex-British  officer, 
and  another  Englishman  whose  name  I  cannot  recall. 

A  certain  Count  Ajasso  and  his  lady  had  lately  come 
to  Rome,  and  had  made  themselves  conspicuous  in  un- 
pleasant ways.  He  was  reported  to  be  a  professional  duellist 
and  a  great  bully,  who  had  been  engaged  in  many  "affairs 
of  honor,"  and  had  killed  his  man  more  than  once.  His 
wife  and  he  were  not  "personse  gratse"  in  society  and  as 
several  American  ladies  who  were  going  to  the  ball  did  not 
wish  to  meet  these  people,  they  asked  the  managers  to  de- 
cline to  give  them  tickets  if  they  applied. 

Now  Count  Ajasso  had  stated  that  he  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  Prince  Humbert,  and  that  at  a  certain  entertain- 
ment he  had  walked  arm  in  arm  with  the  prince;  but  we 
investigated  these  statements  and  found  them  false,  so 
we  thought  this  would  be  a  sufficient  ostensible  reason  to 
give  for  refusing  the  tickets.  Though  the  man  was  un- 
doubtedly a  bounder,  the  real  reason  was  the  reputation 
of  the  countess ;  but  although  every  one  knew  this,  of  course, 
we  were  debarred  from  mentioning  her  at  all,  so  the  situa- 
tion was  a  rather  dehcate  one  for  the  committee.  We  hoped 
that  the  Ajassos  would  not  want  to  come  to  the  ball,  but 
in  any  case  we  decided  not  to  give  them  tickets,  although 
we  foresaw  that  there  might  be  trouble. 

There  was  another  person  in  Rome  that  winter  who 
was  also  supposed  to  be  objectionable,  and  whom  we  were 
asked  not  to  favor;  this  was  an  Englishman  named  Oliver, 
whose  wife  was  said  to  be  a  daughter  of  Madame  Tussaud — 
a  large  showy  young  man,  handsome  in  a  common  way, 
of  very  pronounced  style  and  extravagantly  dressed.  He 
had  curling  black  hair  and  a  ruddy  countenance,  height- 



ened  by  rouge,  and  such  a  very  thin  waist  and  efTcminatc 
figure  that  the  rumor  that  he  wore  corsets  had  every  aj>- 
pearance  of  truth.  He  hunted  and  wa,s  conspicuous  at 
the  hunts  because  he  rode  what  is  known  in  circus  par- 
lance as  a  "calico  horse,"  that  is,  a  black  horse  with  large 
white  blotches  on  him,  four  white  legs,  and  a  white  blaze 
on  his  nose.  Altogether,  Mr.  Ohver  was  vtry-  conspicuous. 
I  never  heard  that  there  was  anything  against  the  char- 
acter of  either  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Oliver — we  simply  did  not  want 

So  it  was  settled  that  these  two  groups  were  to  be 

It  was  decided  to  have  the  ball  at  the  Sala  Dante  and 
we  all  set  about  preparing  our  costumes. 

A  few  days  before  the  great  event,  Count  Ajasso  ap- 
peared at  my  apartment  and  asked  me  for  tickets  for  him- 
self and  his  lady.  He  was  a  tall,  gaunt,  saturnine  individual, 
very  sure  of  himself  in  manner,  and  was  decidedly  taken 
aback  when  I  dechned  to  give  him  the  tickets.  He  de- 
manded my  reason  for  this  action  and  I  told  him  that  1 
did  not  feel  obliged  to  give  any  reason;  so  he  departed. 
That  evening  he  called,  accompanied  by  Captain  Danyell. 
a  member  of  our  committee,  who  came  as  his  friend  and 
urged  me  to  give  him  the  tickets.  Danyell  did  this  on  his 
own  hook  and  without  authority  from  the  other  members 
of  our  committee,  and  in  thus  appearing  and  espousing 
Ajasso's  cause  he  was  let  out  of  all  responsibihty.  As  the 
other  Englishman  on  the  committee  also  backed  squarciv 
out,  Coleman,  Crowninshield,  and  I  had  to  shoulder  the 
whole  affair;    but  we  agreed  to  stand  together. 

When  Danyell  and  Ajasso  came  to  see  me,  they  both 
exhausted  arguments  and  appeals.  The  count  assured 
me  that  every  one  knew  he  intended  to  go  to  the  ball,  and 

21  I 


that  if  we  declined  to  have  him  the  insult  would  ruin  his 
position  in  society.  Indeed,  he  begged  me  with  tears  in 
his  eyes  not  to  deny  him,  but  I  was  firm  in  declining  and 
they  left,  and  I  thought  that  the  incident  was  closed;  but 
the  next  day  three  gorgeous  visiting-cards,  bearing  the 
titles  and  coronets  of  well-known  Itahan  officers,  were 
handed  to  me  with  a  letter,  and  I  went  into  my  parlor  to 
see  the  gentlemen.  They  told  me  that  they  were  Count 
Ajasso's  seconds  and  that  they  were  instructed  to  inform 
me  that  he  felt  I  had  insulted  him  and  demanded  satis- 
faction, unless  I  would  either  apologize,  give  him  the  tickets, 
or  explain  the  reason  for  my  action.  As  I  declined  all  three 
propositions,  they  said  that  they  had  no  alternative  but  to 
demand  satisfaction  and  asked  me  to  name  my  seconds, 
so  that  they  might  arrange  preliminaries.  This  also  I  de- 
clined and  told  them  that  a  duel  was  quite  out  of  the  ques- 
tion— that  I  was  the  sole  representative  of  my  government 
in  Rome,  that  duelling  was  not  only  against  the  law  and 
custom  of  my  country,  but  if  I  engaged  in  one  I  should  ex- 
pose myself  to  ridicule  and  disgrace.  Getting  no  satis- 
faction, they  retired. 

Danyell  and  our  other  English  associates,  having  made 
themselves  safe,  were  out  of  it;  so  Ajasso  turned  his  at- 
tention to  Coleman  and  Crowninshield,  but  without  much 
success.  The  seconds  first  called  on  Coleman  at  his  studio, 
who  dechned  to  talk  the  matter  over  or  discuss  it  in  any 
way,  ridiculed  the  idea  of  fighting  a  duel  about  it,  firmly 
upheld  my  action  in  the  matter,  and,  in  short,  dechned  all 
tickets,  explanations,  or  duels.  Crowninshield's  studio 
was  next  door  to  Coleman's,  so  the  trio  then  applied  there, 
and  as  soon  as  he  learned  their  mission  he  slammed  his 
door,  without  any  remark,  in  their  faces. 

By  this  time  every  gossip  in  Rome  was  busy  with  the 



affair,  and  that  evening  some  of  Ajasso's  friends  met  Crown- 
inshield  at  the  opera  and  told  him  that  if  Cr)unt  Ajasso 
could  not  get  satisfaction  otherwise,  he  would  cane  Mr. 
Armstrong  in  the  street,  and  asked  what  Mr.  Armstrong 
would  do  in  that  event.  Crowninshield  replied  that  if  Mr. 
Armstrong  were  attacked  he  would  doubtless  defend  him- 
self **in  the  usual  American  fashion."  This  cryptic  answer 
they  did  not  relish,  as  it  contained  a  dark  and  sinister  sug- 
gestion of  revolvers  and  bowie  knives,  popularly  supposed 
to  be  the  usual  American  weapons  of  defense.  Thus  the 
matter  rested  for  some  time. 

As  far  as  Mr.  Oliver  was  concerned,  the  affair  was  easily 
settled.  He  came  clattering  up  to  my  door  one  day,  on 
his  calico  horse,  and  when  he  was  announced  asked  for 
tickets  for  the  ball.  I  declined  as  politely  as  possible,  with- 
out giving  any  reason  and  without  his  demanding  any. 
Not  long  afterward  I  met  him  in  the  barber's  shop  where 
he  was  getting  shaved  and  he  said  to  me: 

"What  an  ass  that  fellow  Ajasso  made  of  himself  about 
those  tickets — every  one  in  Rome  knows  about  it  after 
the  advertising  he's  done!  I  had  more  sense.  I  haven't 
mentioned  it  to  a  soul  and  no  one  knows  I  was  turned 
down !" 

Well,  we  had  our  ball— without  the  AJassos  and  Olivers 
— and  it  was  a  great  success.  There  were  many  really  linr 
costumes.  Among  the  most  beautiful  American  wonuji 
were  Mrs.  Frederick  Crowninshield  and  Mrs.  Edward  Boyt 
of  Boston.  All  the  artists  were  there  in  force.  \'edder 
wore  a  fifteenth  century  dress— a  scarlet  doublet  and  tights 
—and  his  fine  figure  combined  with  his  wonderful  dancing 
was  very  effective.  I  wore  a  Venetian  dress,  copied  from 
a  figure  in  one  of  Carpaccio's  pictures  in  Venice— "The  Eni:- 
lish  Ambassadors  visiting  the  Doge"— a  doublet  of  stamped 


yellow  Genoese  velvet,  scarlet  tights,  with  an  old  em- 
broidered coat-of-arms  on  my  breast  and  another  on  the 
calf  of  my  leg,  and  a  jewelled  girdle  in  which  I  carried  an 
ivory-handled  poniard  said  to  have  belonged  to  Vittoria 
Colonna.  I  have  worn  the  same  array  since  at  the  Twelfth 
Night  celebrations  at  the  Century  Club.  My  wife  wore 
an  Italian  dress  of  the  fifteenth  century.  The  ball  was 
successful  financially  and  yielded  a  good  sum  to  the  Relief 

The  ball  was  over,  but  I  still  heard  rumors  that  Ajasso 
was  going  to  cane  me  in  the  street  and  I  was  determined, 
if  he  tried  it,  to  do  my  best  to  thrash  him  in  the  "Amer- 
ican fashion."  From  my  boyhood  I  had  been  interested 
in  sparring,  and  I  had  been  taking  lots  of  exercise,  riding 
and  hunting  every  day,  so  I  was  really  rather  disappointed 
that  nothing  had  happened.  Finally  I  met  Ajasso  one 
day  on  the  Spanish  Steps.  I  was  walking  home  after  a  ride 
and  had  started  up  the  left  flight  of  steps  when,  glancing 
up,  I  saw  Ajasso  at  the  top  on  the  right.  So  I  retraced  my 
steps  and  went  up  the  right  side.  I  hoped  that  the  caning 
was  about  to  begin,  as  he  had  a  stick  in  his  hand,  and  I 
shifted  my  riding-crop  from  my  left  hand  to  my  right  and 
swung  it  thoughtfully.  But  it  was  not  to  be — and  a  glare 
was  his  only  revenge.    A  year  later  he  was  killed  in  a  duel. 




"The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 
Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere ! 
Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  f)eace, 

An  everlasting  wash  of  air — 
Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease." 


Some  of  the  pleasantest  days  of  my  life  were  spent  in 
the  Campagna,  where  the  endless  variety  of  subjects  lured 
one  to  an  endless  number  of  sketches.  I  would  often  take 
my  lunch  with  me  and  stay  all  da}',  going  in  a  cab  as  far 
out  as  I  wanted,  and  then  walking  about  the  fields  until 
I  found  a  picturesque  bit.  Once  I  struck  out  through  a 
lonely  valley  and  when  I  had  gone  some  distance  I  met 
a  fox.  A  little  later,  having  settled  down  to  my  work,  I 
saw  approaching  a  tall,  rough-looking  peasant,  with  a  long 
nintlock  gun,  who  came  and  stood  behind  me  watching  me 
sketch.  I  did  not  like  his  looks  much  and,  to  use  the  ex- 
pression of  a  Cape  Codder,  the  captain  of  the  Cclcstia,  I 
"kept  my  eye  well  skinned  back."  To  make  conversation, 
I  told  him  that  I  had  seen  a  fox. 

"Didn't  you  have  anything  to  shoot  it  with?"  he  asked. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "nothing  but  this,"  and  I  reached  back 
and  took  from  my  pistol-pocket  a  Smith  and  Wesson  revolver 
and  cocked  it. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "buon  giorno!"  and  stalked  away.  I 
think,  if  I  had  not  been  so  brisk  with  my  pistol,  he  might 
have  put  his  old  gun  at  my  head  and  made  me  hold  up  my 



hands  and  relieved  me  of  my  watch  and  pocketbook.  Al- 
most any  one  of  these  peasants  would,  on  occasion,  lapse 
into  a  bandit,  for  the  trade  of  highwayman  is  not  one  that 
they  dislike,  in  fact  it  rather  excites  their  admiration.  In 
1859  when  I  drove  from  Rome  to  Lake  Thrasymene,  the 
danger  from  brigands  was  very  real.  Only  the  week  be- 
fore our  trip,  the  diligence  had  been  stopped  on  the  road 
up  Monte  Somma  and  every  one  had  been  robbed,  even 
the  ladies  being  despoiled  of  their  dresses.  In  those  days 
the  banditti  came  in  large  bands  and  resistance  was  use- 
less, especially  on  the  long  hills,  where  oxen  had  to  be  har- 
nessed to  the  carriages  and  progress  was  necessarily  slow. 

I  was  once  sketching  the  Tor  degli  Schiavi  and  there 
were  several  men  excavating  for  treasure  near  me  all  day. 
They  dug  a  long  trench  right  in  front  of  the  tower,  in  which 
they  found  a  lot  of  vipers,  but  also  some  bits  of  old  jars, 
iridescent  glass,  etc.,  which  they  turned  over  to  me.  They 
dug  one  hole  about  twelve  feet  square  and  six  feet  deep, 
about  one  hundred  feet  from  the  Tor  degli  Schiavi,  on  the 
side  toward  Rome,  and  uncovered  part  of  a  fine  Roman 
pavement,  in  perfect  condition,  decorated  with  white  pea- 
cocks on  a  black  ground.  I  asked  the  men  what  they  were 
going  to  do  with  it,  and  they  said  it  was  no  use  to  them, 
so  they  filled  it  up  and  went  away.  I  remember  the  exact 
spot,  and  I  have  often  thought  that  I  should  like  to  revisit 
it  and  dig  up  the  pavement. 

Beggars  abounded  in  Rome,  indeed  theirs  was  a  well- 
organized  trade.  At  the  top  of  the  Spanish  Steps  a  favorite 
of  ours  used  to  sit,  a  handsome,  black-eyed,  friendly  youth, 
who  held  out  his  hat  with  such  an  engaging  and  appealing 
smile  that  you  could  not  help  putting  something  into  it. 
He  had  but  one  leg  and  carried  a  crutch,  but  he  could  skip 
around  on  it  with  great  facility.     I  once  saw  him  chasing 



a  rival  who  had  trespassed  on  his  preserve,  whom  he  finallv 
overtook  and  beat  over  the  head  with  his  eriiteh.  E\er\ 
beggar  has  his  own  hunting-ground  and  woe  to  any  other 
who  invades  it.  On  the  occasion  of  any  festival  on  thr 
Campagna,  or  the  meet  of  the  hunt,  on  every  hill  wher( 
the  carriages  had  to  go  slowly  the  beggars  gathered  in 
swarms,  and  the  lame,  the  halt,  and  the  hVind  would  way- 
lay us,  with  piteous  cries  of  "Carita  per  amor  di  Dio!" 
holding  out  their  withered  hands  or  exposing  their  other 
deformities  in  a  most  harrowing  way. 

They  had  a  curious  custom  in  the  shops  in  Rome. 
Every  Saturday  one  would  see  a  long  row  of  coppers  laid 
out  on  the  counter  near  the  door.  Each  shop  evidently 
had  its  special  clientele  of  beggars;  a  member  would  ap- 
pear, open  the  door,  pick  up  a  single  copper,  no  more,  mur- 
mur, "Grazie!"  and  depart  without  further  remark.  The 
beggars  had  a  funny  way  of  addressing  or  speaking  of  each 
other,  as  "quel  gobbo,"  "quel  cieco,"  or  "quella  vecchia" 
as  the  case  might  be.  But  then,  all  Italians  more  often 
use  nicknames  for  each  other  than  real  names. 

In  those  days  Roman  society  consisted  chiefly  of  the 
nobility,  or  members  of  the  diplomatic  corps,  and  hardly 
any  one  else  was  admitted.  There  were  literally  only  two 
exceptions — Volpicelli,  the  son  of  a  professor,  and  Gu- 
glielmo  Grant,  a  partner  in  the  firm  of  Maquay,  Hooker, 
and  Company,  the  American  bankers.  They  were  both 
charming  and  agreeable  young  men,  but  there  were  many 
others  just  as  much  so  that  did  not  figure  in  the  best  so- 
ciety, so  called.  At  a  ball  at  the  Palazzo  Doria  I  once  saw 
Grant  dancing  with  the  Princess  Margherita,  an  h(Mior 
which  was  accorded  to  few  young  men.  He  was  fond  of 
rowing,  so  he  and  Fred  Crowninshield,  who  had  been  on 
the  crew  at  Harvard,  sent  to  America  for  a  race-lx)at,  a 



four-oared  shell,  and  were  often  to  be  seen  darting  up  and 
down  the  Tiber  at  racing  speed,  an  unusual  sight  in  sleepy 
Rome.  Of  course,  the  American  women  who  had  married 
distinguished  Romans  were  naturally  in  society,  and  in 
addition  there  were  a  number  of  other  Americans,  among 
them  Mrs.  Charles  King  and  her  family.  Her  son  Rufus 
King  had  been  American  Minister  there,  which  gave  them 
a  diplomatic  position.  From  their  long  residence  in  Rome 
they  knew  all  the  Itahans,  and  they  entertained  very 
pleasantly;  five  o'clock  tea,  a  new  institution  in  those  days, 
was  delightful  at  their  house,  particularly  on  Saturdays 
when  one  met  lots  of  agreeable  people  there — Romans, 
Americans,  and  English. 

Among  the  nice  young  Roman  friends  of  the  Kings  was 
Guido  Bourbon,  Marchese  del  Monte,  a  scion  of  the  noble 
house  of  Bourbon,  a  handsome  young  man  and  a  member  of 
the  Pope's  Noble  Guard — at  a  salary,  if  I  remember  rightly, 
of  some  six  hundred  francs  a  year,  but  nevertheless  he 
was  always  beautifully  dressed  and  apparently  enjoyed  the 
best  of  everything.  It  is  customary  for  the  cadets  of  noble 
families  in  Rome  to  be  supported  by  their  rich  relations, 
at  whose  tables  they  always  have  a  seat  and  to  whom  they 
may  send  their  tailor's  bills.  In  fact,  as  it  is  not  allowable 
for  them  to  engage  in  any  business  whatever  without  losing 
caste,  they  really  cannot  support  themselves.  They  may 
be  in  the  diplomatic  or  military  service,  but  almost  every- 
thing else  is  beneath  their  dignity.  Well,  this  young  man 
was  of  that  class — he  had  nothing  whatever  to  do,  and  the 
Kings  were  sorry  for  him  and  fond  of  him,  and  were  suf- 
ficiently intimate — at  least  they  thought  so — to  give  him 
some  advice;  so  they  suggested  that  he  should  give  up 
his  life  in  Rome  and  go  to  New  York,  where  they  would 
give  him  letters  to  friends  with  whom  he  could  go  into  the 



banking  business,  and  where  with  his  undoubted  abilities 
he  might  make  a  fortune.  But  far  from  being  grateful  for 
their  offer,  he  was  furious  and  felt  deeply  insulted  at  the 
idea  that  a  del  Monte  would  degrade  himself  so  far  as  to 
go  into  trade.  Indeed,  he  was  so  mortally  offended  that 
they  did  not  see  him  for  a  long  while,  though  he  did  finally 
consent  to  forgive  them.  (By  the  way,  the  Roman  princes 
are  not  above  marrying  a  rich  American  girl  and  living 
on  her  money !) 

I  think  it  was  that  same  winter  that  Prince  Pignatelli 
became  very  devoted  to  Miss  Pussy  Strong,  afterward 
Mrs.  Wellman.  Mrs.  Strong,  however,  did  not  fancy  an 
Italian  suitor,  nor  was  he  approved  by  their  stern  Amer- 
ican maid;  in  fact,  everybody  said  that  it  was  she  who 
drove  him  away  in  the  end,  always  avowing  whenever  he 
came  to  call:  "No,  prince.  Miss  Pussy  can't  see  you."  I 
remember  hearing  an  American  declare,  speaking  of  a  Ix'au- 
tiful  countrywoman  of  his  who  had  married  a  Cenci,  that 
the  husband  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  Beatrice  Cenci ! 

Mrs.  Terry,  and  her  daughters,  the  Crawfords,  were 
very  pleasant  people,  living  in  the  Palazzo  Odescalchi. 
The  son,  Marion  Crawford,  was  a  shy  gawky  boy,  who 
gave  no  promise  of  any  sort  of  genius,  and  was  rather  kept 
in  the  background  by  his  family.  Somehow  or  other  Doc- 
tor Nevin  found  that  he  had  a  talent  for  writing  and  en- 
couraged him  to  take  up  literature  as  a  profession.  I  fancy 
his  novel,  "The  Three  Fates,"  describes  something  of  his 
own  experience  with  his  first  novel,  "Mr.  Isaacs,"  which 
had  a  most  extraordinary  success  for  an  unknown  author. 
It  sold  by  thousands,  and  was  even  jxirodied  in  a  little 
volume  with  the  same  cover  only  very  small,  called  "Dr. 
Jacobs."  His  sister,  Mimoli  Crawford,  afterward  Mrs. 
Hugh  Fraser,  is  also  a  good  novelist. 



In  1870,  J.  Bloomfield  Wetherill,  a  cousin  of  mine 
through  the  Macombs,  was  Doctor  Nevin's  curate.  While 
he  was  in  Rome  he  inherited  a  large  fortune  from  his  father, 
Doctor  Wetherill,  of  Philadelphia,  who  left  no  will.  For 
many  years  Doctor  Wetherill  had  done  nothing  for  his 
family,  leaving  his  wife,  who  was  a  fine  woman,  to  bring 
up  their  fifteen  children.  In  fact,  some  of  his  children  did 
not  know  him  by  sight,  though  Bloomfield  said  he  knew 
his  father  sHghtly  and  sometimes  met  him  in  the  street 
and  had  a  little  chat.  Bloomfield  had  always  been  de- 
pendent on  his  salary  as  a  clergyman,  and  you  may  imagine 
how  surprised  and  pleased  he  was  at  receiving  this  large 
fortune.  He  married  a  sister  of  Mrs.  Stanford  White  and 
Mrs.  Prescott  Hall  Butler. 

I  think  it  was  that  winter  that  we  knew  the  Connollys 
in  Rome.  Young  Connolly  was  a  sculptor.  His  father 
was  a  convert  to  Roman  Catholicism,  and  after  inducing 
his  wife  also  to  change  her  faith,  he  became  a  priest  and 
she  went  into  a  convent.  A  fittle  later  he  changed  his  mind 
again  and  gave  up  his  new  beliefs  and  wanted  his  wife  to 
come  back  to  him,  but  she  was  either  less  volatile,  or  less 
constant,  than  he,  as  you  choose  to  look  at  it,  and  would 
not  consent  to  desert  her  convent  for  her  home.  So  in  the 
shuffle  he  lost  her  altogether. 

Doctor  Valery  was  the  fashionable  doctor  in  Rome  in 
those  days;  he  was  a  dear  old  man  and  we  all  loved  him. 
His  English,  although  he  spoke  it  fluently,  was  decidedly 
pecuhar.  I  remember  his  asking  one  of  the  children,  when 
he  came  to  vaccinate  her,  to  "kindly  discover  your  arm." 
When  he  visited  Mrs.  John  Jacob  Astor,  who  was  just  re- 
covering after  a  long  illness,  she  told  my  wife  that  he  said: 
*' You  may  sit  by  the  fire  and  suckle  a  pear,"  and  she  added: 
**What  a  charming  domestic  scene  the  words  call  up!" 



The  Astors  and  Van  Schaicks  went  on  an  excursion  to 
Pacstum  together,  and  as  there  were  a  ^ood  many  brigands 
about  there  at  that  time  and  they  thought  some  rumor  of 
the  Astors'  wealth  might  have  preceded  them,  they  took 
a  guard  of  two  soldiers,  which  would  not  have  been  of  much 
use  if  they  had  been  attacked  by  a  couple  of  hundred 
brigands,  as  was  common  enough  in  those  days.  A  party 
of  English  people  had  been  killed  by  brigands  in  Greece 
only  a  short  time  before,  so  our  friends  had  something  of 
a  shock  when  they  suddenly  saw  a  band  of  men  approach- 
ing across  the  plain;  however,  they  proved  to  be  only  sur- 
veyors. Wilhe  Astor  had  a  turn  for  sculpture  and  studied 
with  Tadolini  that  winter.  His  statue  of  "The  Wounded 
Amazon"  showed  some  promise. 

Doctor  Valery  once  told  me  that  it  was  safe  to  sleep 
in  Rome  with  one's  window  open  provided  that  it  was  forty 
feet  above  the  street,  as  the  malaria  did  not  rise  above  that 
point.  The  real  reason  was,  I  suppose,  that  mosquitoes 
did  not  usually  fly  up  to  that  height.  That  the  mosquitoes 
were  responsible  for  malaria  was  not  then  recognized,  al- 
though, I  believe,  the  Itahans  were  the  first  to  study  them 
from  the  standpoint  of  disease.  The  scientific  people  pur- 
sued their  investigations  by  sleeping  in  the  Pontine  Marshes 
with  and  without  mosquito  nets— a  pretty  sure  way  of 
finding  out,  I  should  think. 

Some  of  the  old  theories  whereby  men  tried  to  account 
for  the  poisoning  of  the  Campagna  by  malaria  are  exceed- 
ingly interesting.  Every  one  was  agreed  that  it  had  not 
always  been  so;  that  when  the  Campagna  was  a  highly 
cultivated  country,  dotted  by  the  vilhis  and  gardens  of 
wealthy  Romans,  it  had  not  been  unheahhy— indeed  it 
was  known  to  have  had  a  perfect  climate— and  it  was  be- 
lieved that  if  the  marshes  could  be  drained  the  malaria 



would  disappear.  In  1867  a  doctor  got  pretty  close  to  the 
mosquito  theory.  He  thought  malaria  came  from  a  minute 
fungus,  propagated  in  the  swamps,  which  got  into  the  hu- 
man system,  particularly  at  night;  for  he  had  observed 
that  a  thin  veil  over  a  sleeping  person  was  sufficient  pro- 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilhkm  H.  Herriman,  of  New  York,  great 
friends  of  ours,  have  lived  in  Rome  from  about  1865  to 
the  present  time.  They  exercised  a  quiet  and  generous 
hospitahty  in  their  delightful  apartment,  and  were  among 
the  best  friends  the  American  artists  had,  for  they  bought 
their  pictures,  befriended  them  in  their  need,  nursed  them 
in  sickness,  and  lent  them  money  when  they  were  hard 
up.  Mr.  Herriman  was  a  wise  collector,  not  only  of  pic- 
tures but  of  all  sorts  of  rare  objects  of  art. 

I  once  took  a  pleasant  trip  as  his  guest  through  the 
hill  towns  back  of  Tivoh,  together  with  Vedder  and  Gris- 
wold,  another  artist,  driving  in  a  carriage  holding  four. 
We  began  by  lunching  at  Tivoli  in  the  little  pavihon  on 
the  hill  above  the  waterfalls,  then  wandered  about  making 
sketches  of  an  old  mediaeval  tower  below,  and  spent  the 
first  night  at  Saracenesca.  The  Saracen  type,  strongly 
marked  among  all  the  inhabitants  there,  is  particularly 
noticeable  among  the  beautiful  women.  I  was  once  sitting 
with  my  wife  in  a  pleasant  leafy  valley  near  Albano,  in 
May,  when  a  woman  of  this  type  came  and  stood  near  us 
silently  watching  the  sketch  I  was  making.  She  had  a 
child  in  her  arms  and  balanced  on  her  head  was  a  tall,  slim, 
green-and-white  water  jar.  She  stood  perfectly  motionless 
for  a  long  while  and  I  have  never  seen  a  lovelier  group, 
posed  in  such  sweet  surroundings. 

After  Saracenesca  we  spent  a  night  at  Subiaco,  with 
its  monastery  overhung  by  a  great  rock.    There  is  a  tradi- 



tion,  I  believe,  that  some  day  the  rock  will  fall  and  over- 
whelm the  wonderful  old  subterranean  church  with  its 
fine  frescoes,  but  the  monks  dwell  there  undisturbed.  Our 
next  stop  was  at  Olevano,  most  beautifully  situated  over- 
looking a  vast  view  of  the  Campagna— from  all  these  hills 
Rome  is  visible,  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  shining  white  and 
dominating  the  distance.  Everything  was  primitive  at 
Olevano.  Most  of  the  houses  had  outside  steps  and  the 
little  black  pigs  were  to  be  seen  walking  up  them,  even 
to  the  second  stories,  seeming  quite  at  home.  In  the  deep 
valley  below  the  village  there  was  a  fountain,  whence  in 
the  evenings  long  files  of  women  carried  water  to  their  homes 
on  the  hill,  in  brightly  pohshed  copper  vessels  and  gayly 
painted  jars.  Here  they  all  wore  the  fine  old  Roman  cos- 
tume, so  rapidly  disappearing  elsewhere — the  beautifully 
embroidered  aprons,  waists,  and  jackets,  with  folded  white 
napkins  on  their  heads  on  which  to  balance  the  jars.  The 
entrance  to  the  hotel  at  Olevano  is  by  a  long,  straight  path, 
and  as  we  walked  up  this  we  were  confronted  by  a  little 
girl,  about  ten  years  old,  who  did  not  have  on  a  stitch  of 
clothing  but  who  seemed  not  in  the  least  embarrassed.  At 
the  hotel  we  met  William  and  Mary  Howitt,  a  charming 
elderly  couple,  interesting  to  talk  to. 

It  was  altogether  a  delightful  trip  with  but  one  draw- 
back, the  ever-present  drawback  in  Italy— the  fleas.  We 
were  well  prepared  for  them  with  a  good  stock  of  Persian 
insect  powder,  and  at  night  we  took  all  the  coverings  ofT 
the  beds,  replaced  a  sheet,  saw  that  all  fieius  were  outside, 
put  a  wall  of  insect  powder  all  around  the  outer  edges,  and 
then  stepped  carefully  over  this  barrier  and  covered  our- 
selves with  the  clothing  that  had  been  well  searched  in 
advance;  but  even  then  we  were  not  immune. 

Ostia  was  the  objective  of  another  pleasant  trip  taken 


by  Crowninshield,  Haseltine,  and  myself.  It  was  expressly 
a  sketching  trip,  for  the  carnival  season  was  approaching, 
and  we  had  all  seen  as  much  as  we  wanted  of  other  carni- 
vals. A  better  choice  for  a  contrast  could  not  have  been 
made.  There  is  a  well-preserved  mediaeval  castle  at  Ostia, 
built  b}^  Pope  Julius  II,  and  its  courtyard  is  the  unusual 
site  chosen  for  a  quaint  little  stone-paved  inn.  The  fire- 
place was  so  huge  that  there  was  room  for  seats  all  around 
the  inside  of  the  chimneypiece  and  space  still  left  between 
for  an  immense  fire,  and  the  only  furniture  was  an  enormous 
table  on  a  raised  platform  which  occupied  the  whole  of 
one  side  of  the  room.  At  the  courtyard  door  was  tethered 
a  mule,  that  at  intervals  dragged  in  logs  and  branching 
trunks  and  gnarled  roots  of  trees,  wherewith  to  replenish 
the  fire,  which  was  always  kept  gayly  burning.  Here  in 
the  evening  the  peasants  would  gather  and  partake  of  their 
nightly  meal  of  macaroni,  which  was  served  in  vessels  the 
size  of  wash-basins,  unaccompanied  by  forks.  It  was  mar- 
vellous how  much  they  could  eat.  Each  one  had  his  bottle 
of  red  wine,  and  after  the  macaroni  was  gone  they  sat  in 
a  long  row  behind  their  dining-table  and  smoked  their  pipes. 
Every  now  and  then  one  of  their  number  would  stoop  to 
the  fire,  fill  his  horny  hand  with  five,  glowing  embers,  and 
beginning  at  one  end  of  the  row  each  man  would  light  his 
pipe  and  pass  the  coal  to  his  neighbor. 

In  my  bedroom  on  the  second  floor,  the  window  and 
only  fight  was  an  uncovered  loophole  in  the  wall,  evidently 
made  for  gun-fire  in  the  middle  ages ;  the  floor  was  of  stone 
and  the  only  furniture  a  tiny  bedstead  and  a  small  three- 
legged  wash-stand  with  a  pitcher  and  basin,  the  latter  much 
smafler  than  those  used  down-stairs  for  the  macaroni.  There 
were  no  chairs;   one  was  supposed  to  sit  on  the  bed. 

In  the  picturesque  castle,  shaded  by  an  enormous  stone- 



pine,  everything  was  just  as  it  had  been  in  the  fifteenth 
century.  As  it  was  surrounded  by  marshes  and  wild  waste 
lands,  the  principal  occupation  was  hunting — though  now 
it  may  be  cultivated  for  all  I  know.  In  the  evening  the 
hunters  brought  in  strings  of  wild  duck;  when  their  talk 
was  not  of  eating  or  money,  the  usual  topics  of  a  peasant, 
it  was  of  exploits  and  adventures  in  shooting.  Close  around 
the  castle  and  running  down  to  the  sea  were  open  fields, 
parts  of  which  had  once  been  cuhivated;  while  in  otlu-r 
parts  the  site  of  the  ancient  city  of  Ostia  was  indicated 
by  mounds  covering  its  former  streets  and  paLices.  What 
a  place  for  excavating!  Walking  along  the  trace  of  one 
of  these  burled  streets,  I  picked  up  an  old  Roman  coin — 

"All  passes.     Art  alone 
Enduring  stays  to  us; 
The  Bust  outlasts  the  throne, 
The  Coin  Tiberius." 

The  neighborhood  is  very  paintable,  with  its  great 
groves  of  stone-pines,  and  its  ancient  chateau  and  towers 
along  the  sea,  built  for  protection  against  pirates.  One 
morning  I  was  seated  in  a  field  not  far  from  the  road  w  hen 
I  was  hailed  from  a  carriage  filled  with  masked  figures— 
you  must  remember  that  it  was  carnival  time.  One  of 
the  ladies  jumped  out  of  the  carriage,  came  over  to  me,  and 
started  a  series  of  remarks,  in  a  high,  squeaky  carnival  voice, 
very  derogatory  to  me  and  my  sketch,  followed  by  im- 
pertinent questions,  which  I  answered  as  best  I  could. 
Finally  I  said: 

'*You  are  doubtless  a  charming  creature,  but  I  wish 
you  would  go  away  !" 

Whereupon  she  took  ofi'  her  mask  and  behold  it  was 
my  wife !    She  was  accompanied  by  a  party  of  friends,  among 



them  Mrs.  Haseltine  and  Nevin.  As  they  had  brought  a 
basket  of  excellent  lunch,  we  adjourned  to  the  top  of  the 
round  tower  of  the  castle  and  had  a  delightful  time. 

We  had  a  httle  club  in  Rome  to  which  most  of  us  be- 
longed, a  pleasant  meeting-place  for  residents  and  visitors, 
where  cigars  and  spirituous  refreshments  were  to  be  had 
but  no  food.    One  of  the  frequenters  was  a  man  whom  we 

will  call  X ,  who  sometimes  stayed  rather  late  and  was 

apt  to  be  hilarious.  He  was  a  slight,  feeble,  little  person, 
but  his  wife  was  robust  and  handsome.  One  evening  she 
called  at  the  club,  went  in  without  ceremony  although 
ladies  were  not  admitted,  took  her  husband  by  the  ear,  and 
led  him  forth.  Their  apartment  was  in  the  Vicolo  San 
Nicolo  da  Tolentino — I  give  its  full  name  because  it  amuses 
me — just  opposite  that  of  the  Crowninshields.  Crownin- 
shield  happened  to  glance  across  the  way  and,  much  to 

his  astonishment,  he  saw  little  X prostrate  on  the  floor 

and  Mrs.  X pounding  him  on  the  head  !    Except  among 

the  visitors,  the  consumption  of  strong  drink,  however,  was 
not  usual  in  Rome;  indeed,  I  scarcely  ever  saw  a  drunken 
native  Italian  in  the  whole  of  Italy  while  I  lived  there,  al- 
though they  all  drink  wine  and  feed  it  copiously  to  the  babies. 

My  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Howard,  died  in  Providence 
while  we  were  in  Rome,  and  I  found  in  an  old  letter  the 
account  of  a  curious  dream  that  my  wife  had  at  the  time — 
only  a  coincidence,  of  course,  but  striking  nevertheless. 
About  ten  days  before  he  died,  my  wife  told  me  one  morn- 
ing that  she  had  dreamed  she  had  taken  up  a  newspaper 
and  seen  Howard's  death  in  it,  aged  fifty-two.  We  talked 
about  it  a  httle,  for  we  did  not  know  his  exact  age.  In  the 
next  mail  from  home  we  heard  of  his  death,  aged  fifty-two, 
and  strangely  enough  my  wife  read  of  it  first  in  the  paper, 
not  in  a  letter. 



Governor  Fenton,  ex-Governor  of  New  York,  came  to 
Rome  one  winter  with  his  handsome  daughter,  and,  of 
course,  I  had  to  be  pohte  to  them  and  show  them  around. 
Happening  to  learn  the  amount  of  my  salary  as  consul, 
the  governor  averred  that  it  ought  to  be  raised  and  vohin- 
teered  to  use  his  influence  with  the  government  to  that 
end.  Of  course  I  expressed  myself  as  grateful  to  him.  A 
few  days  afterward  I  showed  him  a  book  of  mine,  "From 
Rome  to  Thrasymenc,"  and  he  said  he  would  take  it  home 
to  look  it  over.  After  keeping  it  for  some  time,  he  asked 
me  if  I  intended  to  make  him  a  present  of  it.  I  told  him 
that  unfortunately  I  had  already  given  it  to  my  brother; 
but  still  the  book  did  not  come  back,  and  it  was  only  after 
a  good  deal  of  difficulty  and  delay  that  he  finally  rehictantl^' 
returned  it.     I  conchided  he  needed  a  httle  watching. 

Later  on  he  told  me  he  would  like  to  buy  a  copy  of  the 
Young  Augustus  in  bronze,  so  I  took  him  to  some  of  the 
shops  and  found  a  statuette  that  he  liked.  He  asked  mc 
if  I  advised  him  to  buy  it,  and  I  said  I  did;  i)ut  nothing 
happened,  though  he  kept  on  talking  about  it.  By  the 
time  he  left  Rome  I  had  about  made  up  my  mind  that  he 
expected  me  to  present  it  to  him  (which,  of  course,  I  could 
not  do)  and  that  his  influence  would  be  used  in  proportion 
to  what  he  got  out  of  mc.  Even  after  he  left  Rome,  the 
old  fox  wrote  to  me  and  said  that  if  I  still  thought  that 
bronze  would  look  well  on  his  library  table  at  home  to 
buy  it. 

Some  years  later  I  was  in  the  banking  house  of  Monroe 
and  Company  in  Paris,  and  Governor  Fenton  was  sitting 
there,  also  two  Englishmen.  Some  friend  of  the  governor 
came  in  and  said  to  him: 

''Good  morning,  governor.  Fm  glad  it's  a  fine  day  at 
last!"  or  something  of  the  sort. 



"So  be  I !    So  be  I !"  replied  the  governor. 

One  of  the  Englishmen,  hearing  this  bucolic  phrase, 
turned  to  his  friend  and  whispered  in  an  awe-struck  voice: 

"He  called  him  governor  /" 

"From  Rome  to  Thrasymene,"  the  book  which  the 
governor  took  a  fancy  to,  was  in  manuscript,  the  account 
of  a  trip  I  had  taken  during  my  first  visit  to  Italy,  which 
I  copied  and  illustrated  in  the  winter  evenings  at  Dans- 
kammer.  It  is  beautifully  bound,  and  the  neatness  of  the 
handwriting  fills  me  with  astonishment,  but  neither  text 
nor  drawing  is  good — particularly  the  decorative  drawings 
are  not  at  all  such  as  I  do  now,  or  should  like  to  have  con- 
sidered samples  of  my  work — and  at  times  I  have  been 
tempted  to  burn  the  old  thing.  But  then  I  have  remem- 
bered those  pleasant  winter  evenings,  with  my  brothers 
alive  and  young,  sitting  there  reading  or  chatting,  the  dogs 
curled  up  before  the  cosey  open  fire,  the  shining  mahogany 
table  covered  with  my  drawing  things — life,  too,  spread 
out  all  before  me.  When  I  realize  that  all  these  things 
are  passed  away  never  to  return,  and  no  one  living  can 
recall  them  except  myself,  then  I  refrain  from  putting  the 
book  in  the  fire,  and  let  it  go  for  what  it  is  worth,  as  the 
fruit  of  early  youth. 

The  hunt  was  a  delightful  feature  of  the  winter  life  in 
Rome.  The  club  was  chiefly  made  up  from  the  Roman 
nobility,  who  controlled  it;  but  foreigners  were  allowed 
to  subscribe  and  enjoy  all  its  privileges.  The  Romans  were 
most  of  them  handsome  young  men  and  rode  fine  Engfish 
horses.  The  Marquis  Calabrini  was  master  of  the  hunt, 
and  among  the  usual  riders  whose  names  I  remember  were 
the  two  Princes  Grazzioli,  Prince  Doria,  and  Prince  Marc 
Antonio  Colonna;  the  latter  was  dark,  with  beautiful 
features,  while  the  Dorias  and  Grazziolis  were  ruddy-faced, 



light-haired  men,  more  like  English  than  Italians— the 
Dorias  are  half  English  anyway,  and  take  after  their  Eng- 
lish ancestors  in  appearance. 

The  club  owned  a  fine  pack  of  hounds  that  had  to  be 
frequently  recruited  from  England,  because,  strange  to 
say,  the  hounds  bred  in  Italy  lose  their  scent  and  are  of 
no  use.  There  was  always  a  tent  pitched  at  the  meet,  where 
we  went  when  the  run  was  over  for  a  collation  and  to  talk 
over  the  events  of  the  day.  The  meets  were  usually  at 
a  considerable  distance  from  Rome,  in  any  and  every  part 
of  the  Campagna,  and  the  long  rides  gave  a  fine  chance 
to  study  the  country,  for  one  went  to  all  sorts  of  out-of- 
the-way  spots  which  the  ordinary  traveller  would  never 
discover.  In  this  way  I  often  saw  beautiful  subjects  for 
sketching,  which  I  afterward  went  back  to  paint,  and  this 
part  of  the  hunting  I  enjoyed  as  much  as  the  riding. 

One  of  the  favorite  meets  was  on  the  high  ground  at 
the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella  on  the  Appian  Way.  All  the 
jumps  there  are  over  stone  walls,  and  one  day  I  calculated 
that  I  had  taken  my  horse  over  at  least  fifty  walls.  On 
the  high  ground  the  obstacles  are  usually  stone,  but  in 
the  lower  part  of  the  Campagna  you  meet  rail  fences,  five 
or  six  feet  high,  spiked  together  firmly  in  order  to  keep 
in  the  herds  of  buffalo  and  long-horned  oxen.  Unless  (^ne 
has  a  good  horse,  they  are  diilicult  to  negotiate.  The  walls 
are  much  safer  riding  and  there  are  few  falls,  as  a  horse 
soon  learns  that  he  can  strike  a  wall  as  he  jumps  and  knock 
off  a  few  stones  with  safety,  but  they  do  not  like  the  fences, 
because  if  they  hit  a  fence  and  the  rails  do  not  break  they 
either  stick  there  and  the  rider  goes  over  his  horse's  head 
or  both  horse  and  rider  go  headlong  together.  And  then, 
for  some  reason,  a  horse  is  apt  to  be  more  afraid  of  some- 
thing he  can  see  through  than  he  is  of  a  solid  obstacle  like 



a  wall.  The  Campagna  provides  all  sorts  of  pitfalls  for 
the  unwary  horseman — unfathomable  ditches,  old  wells  and 
broken  ruins  everywhere.  Needless  to  say,  there  were  lots 
of  chances  in  Roman  hunting,  as  the  country  was  generally 
one  you  had  never  seen  before  and  you  never  knew  what 
was  ahead  of  you.  They  told  of  a  man  coming  to  a  very 
bad  spot  and  dismounting  to  lead  his  horse,  when  he  felt 
a  pull  on  the  reins  and  turned  to  see  his  horse  shde  out  of 
sight  into  a  deep  hidden  excavation,  from  which  he  never 
reappeared  ahve. 

Another  popular  meet  was  at  the  Tor  degli  Schiavi, 
beyond  the  Porta  Maggiore,  the  old  tower  that  was  either 
an  ancient  Roman  temple  or  a  tomb,  as  there  are  niches 
in  the  walls  that  might  have  held  either  statues  or  vases 
for  the  ashes  of  the  dead.  Built  of  very  rich  red  brick,  one 
side  has  been  shattered  by  an  explosion  and  reveals  the 
brilhant  white  cement  of  the  inner  arched  ceiling,  but  ex- 
cept for  this  huge  rent  it  is  almost  as  perfect  as  when  it  was 
built,  although  mellowed  by  time  to  a  soft  and  dehghtful 
beauty.  It  stands  on  an  elevation  backed  by  the  rolhng 
Campagna  and  the  blue  Alban  hills,  and  of  course  I  made 
sketches  of  it,  as  every  artist  does  who  goes  to  Rome.  Here 
the  Campagna  was  varied  by  hills  and  valleys,  brooks  and 
watercourses,  broken  rocky  hillsides  studded  with  olives, 
and  gorges  filled  with  knotted  ilex-trees.  Occasionally  the 
hunt  would  go  over  one  of  the  broad  fields  of  green  winter 
wheat — then  the  owner  was  paid  for  any  damage  that  had 
been  done.  It  was  a  perfect  dehght  to  ride  through  this 
country  on  dehcious  winter  days,  following  the  hounds 
speckled  over  the  landscape  making  music  dear  to  every 
hunter's  heart,  the  red  coats  giving  spots  of  color  and  gayety 
to  the  scene. 

The  hunt  was  always  accompanied  by  a  man  on   a 



shaggy  horse,  armed  with  an  axe,  and  after  the  huntsmen 
and  best  riders  had  jumped  the  intact  fence,  if  they  had 
not  in  so  doing  broken  a  rail  or  two,  he  would  chop  down 
some  more  bars  and  let  the  timid  riders  think  that  they  were 
really  hunting  when  they  scrambled  over  the  reduced  ob- 

Some  of  the  best  riders  were  women,  among  them  Miss 
Antoinette  Polk,  daughter  of  Bishop  Polk,  who  was  after- 
ward the  wife  of  General  Charette  of  the  Pope's  Noble 
Guard.  She  was  a  beautiful  woman,  as  well  as  a  beautiful 
rider,  with  an  abundance  of  lovely  brown  hair  that  did  not 
need  a  switch — a  hair  switch,  I  mean — but  it  was  the  cus- 
tom to  wear  these  articles  and  one  day,  much  to  her  morti- 
fication, her  switch  dropped  off  and  one  of  the  Roman  princes 
leaped  to  the  ground  to  restore  it  to  her.  The  Misses  King, 
daughters  of  Charles  King,  were  also  first-rate  riders.  (One 
of  them  became  Mrs.  Eugene  Schuyler;  and  the  youngest, 
afterward  Madame  Waddington,  wife  of  the  premier  and 
minister  of  foreign  affairs  in  Paris,  has  written  some  in- 
teresting reminiscences  of  her  hfe  in  various  courts  of  Eu- 
rope.) Miss  Harriet  Hosmer,  the  sculptor,  rode  in  fine 
style  on  a  tall  brown  horse  and  jumped  everything  in  sight. 
One  year  in  the  steeplechases  on  the  Campagna  after  Easter, 
Miss  Hosmer's  horse  won.  As  her  jockey  was  dressed  in 
the  "Stars  and  Stripes,"  the  Americans  felt  it  a  great  na- 
tional triumph. 

A  Doctor  Burrage,  the  American  dentist  in  Rome,  was 
among  those  who  rode  to  hounds.  His  Italian  was  sketchy, 
and  once  when  his  horse  had  had  a  hard  day  and  was  very 
warm  he  said  to  his  groom:  "Rubate  bene!"  meaning 
"Rub  him  well!"  which  the  groom  answered  cheerfully 
with  a  broad  grin  and  a  quick  "Si,  signore !  Si,  signore!" 
for  rubate  is  the  imperative  of  rubare,  to  rob,  and  the  groom 



was  more  than  willing  to  carry  out  his  master's  instruc- 

The  beautiful  young  Austrian  Empress  rode  in  Rome 
for  two  winters;  she  was  a  graceful  rider,  mounted  on  the 
best  of  horses,  and  always  at  the  front.  I  remember  one 
meet  we  had  at  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  when  the  Em- 
press was  riding;  in  addition  to  the  usual  tent  where  there 
were  refreshments  for  all  the  hunt,  a  special  place  was  set 
apart  for  her  and  her  suite  and  decorated  with  flowers. 
Every  one  in  Rome  drove  out  there  that  day — there  must 
have  been  a  hundred  and  fifty  riders,  and  although  it  rained 
a  little  in  the  morning  it  was  very  gay.  The  Empress  rode 
all  day;  she  had  a  pretty  horse  belonging  to  the  Queen  of 
Naples  and  wore  a  black  habit,  a  little  round  cap,  and  black 
stockings,  which  covered  a  very  neat  ankle — black  stock- 
ings were  considered  very  odd  in  those  days,  when  women 
all  wore  white.  On  account  of  the  rain,  the  ground  was 
slippery  and  there  were  a  good  many  falls,  but  no  one  w^as 

Red  coats  were  for  the  most  part  confined  to  the 
Romans,  but  there  w^re  occasionally  English  or  Americans 
who  sported  red,  and  all  w^ore  high  hats,  which  were  a  pro- 
tection if  you  happened  to  fall  on  your  head,  as  I  did  once 
in  riding  through  a  field  where  low  bushes  covered  the 
obstacles  underneath.  We  came  to  two  ditches  lying  side 
by  side,  and  my  horse  cleared  the  first,  but  not  seeing  the 
second  landed  in  the  middle  of  it  and  actually  stood  on 
his  head,  so  that  his  forehead  was  covered  with  mud.  I 
followed  suit  and  stood  on  my  head,  or  rather  on  my  high 
hat,  which  was  split  in  two  and  driven  down  over  my  eyes, 
and  my  neck  was  so  stiff  afterward  that  I  could  hardly 
move  it  for  some  time.  Had  it  not  been  for  my  high  hat 
I  should  probably  have  broken  my  neck.     This  and  one 



other  were  the  only  falls  I  had  in  Rome  during  all  my  hunt- 
ing experience.     I  was  very  fortunate. 

My  exemption  from  accidents  was  chiefly  due  to  my 
horse,  Lungarino,  which  was  one  of  the  best  and  most 
reliable  animals  I  have  ever  known.  He  was  probably  of 
Arab  blood,  beautifully  turned,  brown,  fifteen  hands  high 
and  clean-limbed,  with  a  long  neck,  small  head,  sloping 
shoulders,  and  large  hquid  soft  eyes.  An  old  vet,  who  for 
many  years  attended  the  four  hundred  horses  of  Barnum's 
circus,  once  told  me  that  in  examining  a  horse  he  always 
looked  first  at  his  ''countenance,"  as  he  expressed  it,  partic- 
ularly his  eye,  "because  no  good  horse  ever  had  a  bad  eye." 
Lungarino  had  been  raised  on  the  rough  ground  of  the 
Campagna,  and  was  the  most  sure-footed  beast  I  have  ever 
ridden.  I  never  had  him  refuse  a  jump  of  any  sort,  and 
ahhough  my  Hght  weight  was  a  help  to  him  in  this — I  once 
rode  a  race  at  Jerome  Park,  a  mile  in  1.48,  weighing,  with 
my  saddle,  one  hundred  and  fifteen  pounds — the  real  reason, 
beyond  his  great  agihty,  was  that  we  had  mutual  confidence 
in  each  other,  and  when  I  turned  his  head  to  a  fence  he 
knew  that  I  intended  him  to  jump  it,  and  he  never  disap- 
pointed me.  There  was  a  Spaniard  named  Heredia  who 
was  one  of  our  best  riders  and  had  an  excellent  horse  some- 
thing like  mine.  Wherever  he  went  I  always  followed,  or 
if  I  led  he  followed  me.  We  made  this  a  rule,  and  although 
I  say  it,  who  should  not,  we  were  always  among  the  first 
in  the  field.  One  day  the  hounds  were  thrown  out  and 
we  were  all  riding  across  a  big  open  field,  with  a  high  rail 
fence  in  front  of  us  and  a  gate  further  up,  through  which 
the  whole  hunt  filed.  I  kept  on  alone,  however,  and  jumped 
my  horse  over  the  fence.  Pretty  soon  we  rode  back  again 
and  all  went  through  the  gate  except  myself,  for  I  thought 
that  I  might  as  well  take  the  fence  again,  so  I  put  Lun- 



garino  at  it,  but  he  swerved  a  little  just  before  he  reached 
it  and  jumped  right  over  the  gate-post  itself— it  must  have 
been  more  than  six  feet.  When  Calabrini,  the  M.  F.  H., 
saw  it,  he  said  to  one  of  his  friends,  "That  young  man  will 
break  his  neck  some  time  !" 

Another  time  there  w^as  a  large  gathering  at  the  hunt 
— I  never  saw  so  many,  perhaps  two  hundred — and  we  had 
one  or  two  short  runs.  One  fox  took  to  a  cane-brake  and 
was  killed,  after  which  we  had  a  long  run  across  a  level 
sort  of  country  with  a  great  many  rail  fences.  F.  Augustus 
Schermerhorn  on  his  brown  horse  Barone,  Baring  of 
the  British  Legation,  and  I  were  riding  side  by  side;  pres- 
ently we  noticed  that  there  was  no  one  else  in  sight.  The 
hounds  were  running  right  in  front  of  us,  when  they  sud- 
denly stopped  and  began  baying  around  the  ruins  of  some 
old  buildings  where  the  fox  had  evidently  run  to  earth. 
We  were  there  several  minutes  before  any  others  of  the 
hunt  came  up — Schermerhorn  remarked  that  it  spoke  pretty 
well  for  America  and  England. 

Lungarino  was  such  a  wonderful  Httle  horse  that 
I  must  be  forgiven  if  I  recall  some  trifling  incidents  just  to 
show  what  a  cathke  creature  he  was  and  how  level-headed. 
I  was  alone  following  Miss  Hosmer,  on  her  tall  brown  horse, 
and  she  crossed  a  ditch  which  I  tried  in  another  place  lower 
down.  At  the  edge,  hidden  by  low  bushes,  I  struck  a  round- 
topped  rock,  just  large  enough  to  hold  my  horse's  feet; 
he  touched  it  hghtly,  sprang  from  it  across  a  deep  muddy 
brook,  landed  on  another  rock,  and  then  scrambled  up  an 
almost  perpendicular  broken  bank  on  the  other  side — all 
in  the  time  that  it  takes  to  tell  about  it. 

Another  time,  having  been  thrown  out  of  the  hunt, 
I  found  myself  entirely  alone,  with  no  one  in  sight,  riding 
along  a  sloping  stony  hillside  sparsely  clothed  with  olive- 



trees.  I  was  galloping  pretty  fast,  as  it  was  late  and  I  wanted 
to  catch  up  to  the  others,  when  suddenly  under  our  noses 
I  saw  one  of  those  Roman  watercourses  cd^i^cd  with  brick 
on  both  sides,  so  I  spoke  to  Lungarino  and  he  took  it 
in  his  stride — it  looked  very  wide  and  deep  as  I  glimpsed 
it  below  me  in  passing  and  I  thanked  my  stars  when  I  was 
over.  I  never  would  have  taken  it  dehberately,  because 
if  Lungarino  had  not  jumped  it  clean,  or  had  trodden 
on  either  edge,  we  should  have  been  done  for,  horse  and  all, 
for  no  one  would  ever  have  found  us  in  that  lonely  spot. 

A  dashing  rider  at  the  hunt  whom  I  have  not  mentioned 
before  was  Miss  Elizabeth  Balch,  a  famous  beauty.  She 
went  abroad  with  us  to  visit  relations  in  Rome;  we  realized 
that  her  chaperonage  though  only  for  the  journey  was  some- 
thing of  a  responsibihty.  Lizzie,  as  she  was  usually  called, 
was  not  only  exceedingly  pretty,  but  she  had  a  sympathetic 
and  highly  cuhivated  voice  and  was  a  fearless  rider.  Her 
father,  Doctor  Balch,  had  been  at  one  time  canon  of  the 
cathedral  in  Montreal,  but  when  we  first  knew  them  the 
Balches  were  hving  in  Newport,  near  the  second  beach  at 
Purgatory.  Lizzie's  admirers  were  legion.  They  had  begun 
with  the  British  officers  stationed  at  Montreal  when  she 
was  living  there,  and  with  one  of  these,  Lord  George  Hamil- 
ton, a  charming  man  and  very  handsome,  we  all  went  to 
tea  at  his  house  in  London.  In  Rome  she  was  supposed 
to  be  engaged  to  the  Marquis  of  Bute — that  would  have 
been  a  brilhant  match — and  another  winter  the  Spanish 
ambassador,  who  lived  in  the  Villa  Farnesina,  was  very 
attentive.  She  was  living  with  her  uncle,  Mr.  Mobray, 
who  had  an  apartment  in  the  Via  Sistina  just  across  the 
way  from  us,  and  we  used  often  to  see  the  ambassador's 
fine  equipage,  with  its  smart  cobs,  drawn  up  in  front  of  her 
door  for  hours. 



But  in  spite  of  all  this  admiration,  she  never  married — 
she  had  a  quick  tongue  and  perhaps  this  had  something  to 
do  with  it.  At  one  time  the  Prince  of  Wales  was  a  great 
friend  of  hers,  and  used  to  call  on  her  often  in  London.  She 
once  said  to  him: 

"How's  your  wife?" 

"Her  Royal  Highness  the  Princess  of  Wales  is  very 
well,"  he  answered  stiffly. 

"Well,  she  is  your  wife,  isn't  she?"  she  remarked,  a 
pleasantry  which  he  hked  so  httle  that,  I  believe,  he  never 
called  on  her  again — he  drew  the  line  at  jokes  about  the 

Among  my  pleasantest  companions  at  the  hunt  was 
Theodore  Roosevelt,  father  of  T.  R.,  who  was  spending 
the  winter  in  Rome  with  his  family.  Mrs.  Roosevelt  was 
charming,  and  he  an  agreeable  man  and  an  enthusiastic 
horseman.  We  had  many  delightful  rides  together,  not 
only  at  the  hunt,  but  exploring  many  out-of-the-way  places 
in  the  Campagna,  he  mounted  on  his  fine  horse  that  we 
always  called  the  Gallant  Gray  and  I  on  Lungarino. 

Theodore  Roosevelt  to  D.  M.  A.     Rome 

94  Maiderx  Lane,  N.  Y.,  Sept.,  1870. 
"...  I  have  taken  a  place  at  Riverdale  for  the  sum- 
mer, but  there  is  no  Campagna,  with  its  lovely  ruins,  sur- 
rounded by  snow  clad  mountains  and  interspersed  by  those 
charming  stone  fences.  I  cannot  say  so  much  for  the  wooden 
fences,  as  they  brought  my  nice  old  gray  horse  so  sadly  to 
grief.  I  have  a  good  saddle  horse  but  am  reduced  to  nothing 
but  style  now.  The  four  horses  that  I  drive  might  as  well 
be  oxen,  they  are  nearly  seventeen  hands  high,  hold  up 
their  heads  and  tails  and  go  with  their  feet  just  like  ma- 
chines, and  as  you  may  imagine  give  me  no  pleasure,  though 



I  suppose  the  boys  I  pass  on  the  road  fed  I  am  much  to 
be  envied.  An  Englishman  the  other  day  had  the  coolness 
to  congratulate  me  on  their  training. 

At  the  rate  at  which  Europe  is  travelling,  before  this 
reaches  you  you  will  probably  be  consul  to  a  defunct  gov- 
ernment, much  to  the  delight  of  the  American  people;  tluir 
sympathies  were  at  first  with  Prussia,  and  now  they  do 
not  know  whether  or  not  they  should  desert  her  for  a  French 

There  were  plenty  of  foxes  on  the  Campagna,  so  we 
never  had  to  resort  to  drag  hunts;  indeed,  there  were  some- 
times too  many,  as  the  pack  would  then  divide  and  lake 
up  a  fresh  scent  of  some  other  fox  who  had  crossed  the  trail 
of  the  first  one.  I  w^as  once  riding  close  to  the  hounds  and 
we  came  to  cross-roads  where  two  foxes  were  sitting,  ap- 
parently talking  to  each  other.  As  we  surprised  them, 
one  took  the  right  hand  and  the  other  the  left  and  the 
pack  separated,  one-half  of  them  after  each  fox. 

I  trust  that  I  may  be  pardoned  for  telling  so  much  about 
my  riding.  I  really  do  not  do  it  from  vanity,  but  because 
I  remember  those  days  so  vividly,  so  pleasantly,  that  they 
insist  on  being  recorded.  Riding  has  been  one  of  the  chief 
delights  of  a  long  fife — indeed,  as  I  have  already  told  you, 
the  most  thrilling  of  all  my  early  recollections  is  my  first 
ride  on  Commodore  Salter's  large  bay  horse,  in  the  orchard 
at  Danskammer. 

I  have  been  told  by  Englishmen  that  the  hunting  in 
Rome  is  much  rougher  and  more  dangerous  than  that  over 
the  average  English  country,  being  more  like  that  of  Ire- 
land. Occasionally  there  were  accidents.  One  very  sad 
one  in  1870,  though  not  in  hunting,  was  that  of  Hartmann 
Kuhn,  of  Philadelphia,  an   awfully  nice  fellow,  handsome 



and  dashing.  He  hunted  and  had  several  fine  horses,  but 
though  a  fair  rider  had  a  bad  habit  of  checking  his  horse 
just  as  he  was  rising  to  a  jump,  which  was  dangerous,  as 
it  threw  the  horse  out  of  his  stride.  He  was  trying  to  cor- 
rect this  habit  and  went  out  on  the  Campagna  with  his 
groom  to  practise,  but  he  pulled  on  his  horse  so  suddenly 
that  it  fell  on  him  and  injured  him  internally.  The  Em- 
peror's doctor  happened  to  be  in  Rome  and  went  to  see 
him,  but  said  there  was  no  hope,  and  Kuhn  died  in  a  few 
days.  He  left  a  wife,  who  had  been  a  Miss  Gary  of  New 
York,  and  a  little  child.  After  the  accident  it  was  remem- 
bered that  at  a  party  at  the  Terrys'  the  evening  before  he 
had  talked  a  great  deal  about  a  recent  hunting  disaster 
in  England,  remarking  that  to  have  a  horse  fall  on  you 
was  the  worst  thing  that  could  happen.  I  was  riding  with 
him  the  evening  before  his  accident.  We  dismounted  at 
the  Porta  Pia,  and  while  walking  home  through  the  Via 
Babuino  we  got  talking  about  the  various  floods  caused 
by  the  overflowing  of  the  Tiber,  and  he  showed  me  a  wall 
in  a  little  side  street  on  which  the  height  of  floods  in  Rome 
was  marked. 

Everybody  knows  the  tradition  about  the  fountain  of 
Trevi — how  if  you  drink  of  its  waters  the  night  before  your 
departure  you  will  surely  return  once  more  to  the  Eternal 
City  before  you  die.  So  the  evening  before  I  left  I  went 
to  the  fountain,  and  kneeling  at  its  basin  I  took  a  draught. 
I  don't  remember  whether  or  no  I  uttered  a  prayer  that 
I  might  return,  but  I  certainly  had  a  strong  hope  that  the 
prophecy  might  be  fulfilled.  Alas  !  it  never  has  been — and 
now  there  is  no  probability  that  it  ever  will  be.  Twice  since 
I  left  I  have  been  back  to  Italy,  as  near  to  Rome  as  Naples. 
But  to  Rome  I  have  never  returned.  My  wife  went  there 
in  1906,  but  thirtj'-four  years  of  absence  had  so  changed 



everything  that  it  made  her  very  sad  and  homesick.  Most 
of  her  old  friends  were  dead,  and  when  she  went  U>  look 
at  our  old  house  in  the  Via  Sistina  she  found  thai  the  ancient 
walls  had  been  refmished  like  a  modern  French  apartnu-nt- 
house  and  not  a  vestige  remained  of  the  former  beauty 
wrought  by  three  centuries  of  time  and  decay. 




"Star-crowned  citadels,  golden  isles  in  a  violet  sea." 

— Palgrave. 

One  should  always  arrive  in  Venice  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, as  I  did  that  summer  day  in  1872,  when  I  stepped  out 
of  the  stuffy  train,  and  saw  the  gondolas  swimming  on  the 
lagoon  in  the  flush  of  dawn,  all  so  gay  and  beautiful.  A 
few  days  before,  my  wife  had  sailed  for  America  with  my 
two  little  children  and  a  Roman  nurse,  and  after  seeing 
them  off  at  Havre  I  started  on  the  Fourth  of  July  to  spend 
the  summer  in  Venice.  Just  after  my  family  left  me,  I  went 
through  a  pretty  "bad  quarter  of  an  hour,"  for  there  came 
a  report  that  a  French  hner  had  been  lost,  and  for  some 
time  I  could  not  be  sure  that  it  was  not  the  ship  that  car- 
ried all  I  had  in  the  world. 

But  after  that,  everj-thing  was  perfect,  except  the  mos- 
quitoes— "zanzari"  as  the  Italians  aptly  call  them.  Ever}-- 
where  were  signs,  "Try  our  Fidibus  !"  a  pastile  one  burned 
in  the  room  at  night,  paralyzing  to  the  mosquito  but  to 
humans  almost  as  noxious  as  the  pest  himself.  My  wife 
lamented  the  heat  I  should  have  to  endure,  but  it  proved 
nothing  to  what  America  went  through  that  summer.  I 
never  saw  the  thermometer  higher  than  eighty-three,  and 
at  Fishkill-on-the-Hudson,  where  she  was,  it  went  up  to  a 
hundred  and  stayed  there.  The  bathing  at  the  Lido  was 
dehghtful,  especially  the  return  across  the  water  in  the 
cool  of  the  evening.     I  agree  with  the  Itahans  in  thinking 



Venice  an  ideal  watering-place — except  for  fleas  and  mos- 

They  said  in  Venice  that  Phillips  Brooks,  Willie  Mc- 
Vickar — both  afterward  bishops — and  Richardson  the  archi- 
tect, all  enormously  tall  men,  once  went  to  the  Lido  together 
to  bathe.  Beginning  with  Richardson,  one  after  the  other 
applied  to  the  bathing-house  man  for  bathing  suits;  he 
managed  to  squeeze  Richardson  into  one  of  the  little  gar- 
ments adapted  to  his  Italian  customers,  but  was  appalled 
when  Phillips  Brooks  made  the  same  demand,  and  actually 
turned  tail  and  ran  away  in  horror  when  the  giant  McVickar 
appeared  before  his  astonished  eyes.  Willie  McVickar  was 
the  biggest  man  I  ever  saw  out  of  a  circus. 

I  stayed  at  Venturini's,  a  small  hotel  overlooking  the 

harbor  near  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  where  I  had  stopped  the 

summer  before  with  my  family.    Vcnturini  was  a  persistent, 

bustling  little  man — much  like  one  of  his  own  mosquitoes — 

who  lighted  on  you  whenever  he  got  a  chance  and  buzzed 

j  you  to  death  with  the  glories  of  his  hotel.     Distinguished 

!  visitors  are  the  breath  of  life  to  Italian  landlords  and  they 

!  delight  in  spreading  their  names  and  titles  on  the  bulletin 

i  board  in  the  front  hall,  so  of  course  I  figured  as  **Q)nsoIc 

j  Generale  degli  Stati  Uniti  d'America,"  and  when  my  brother 

(  Gouverneur  came  we  were  amused  to  fmd  him  posted  as 

Signor  Armstrong  "Gouvernatore  de  New  Y'ork." 

The  Haseltines  were  at  Venturini's,  and  so  was  George 
Yewell,  who  was  painting  a  fine  interior  of  the  ducal  palace. 
Later  on  Yewell  painted  a  good  deal  in  Eg\'pt.  When  he 
first  worked  there,  he  got  rather  discouraged— he  couldn't 
seem  to  get  the  right  efi'cct  of  atmosphere.  He  was  com- 
plaining of  this  one  day  to  several  other  painters,  when  he 
was  interrupted  by  a  stranger  wearing  a  fez,  who  turned 
out  to  be  the  brother  of  Edouard  Frere.     "You  must  re- 



member,"  he  said,  ''that  you  have  never  before  painted 
in  a  country  that  is  absolutely  dry.  In  Europe  on  a  bright 
day  the  air  is  clean,  here  it  is  full  of  dust.  Never  forget 
that  the  sunshine  here  is  always  thickened  with  dust.'* 
Yewell  found  this  advice  was  just  what  he  needed. 

Another  friend  at  Venturini's  was  John  Bunney,  an 
Englishman  who  made  most  delightful  water-colors,  beau- 
tiful in  drawing,  and  in  color  minutely  true  to  nature.  He 
was  a  charming  man  as  well  as  an  enthusiastic  painter; 
so  pleasant  was  our  friendship  that  it  lived  through  a  cor- 
respondence of  years.  The  illustrations  for  **The  Stones 
of  Venice"  were  his  work,  and  at  this  time  he  was  occupied 
with  some  more  drawings  for  Ruskin,  whom  he  knew  inti- 
mately. I  remember  once  speaking  of  Ruskin's  advice 
to  young  draftsmen,  "Always  have  in  your  pocket  a  well- 
sharpened  pencil  in  a  sheath,  ready  for  any  emergency," 
and  I  asked  Bunney  if  Ruskin  practised  his  own  precept. 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  said,  "he  never  had  any  pencil 
or  paper  with  him  and  always  borrowed  mine!" 

Bunney's  many  years  in  Venice  had  shown  him  every 
nook  and  corner;  no  street  was  too  tortuous,  no  palazzo 
or  picture  too  out  of  the  way,  for  him  to  discover.  He  and 
I  would  sally  out  very  early  on  delicious  summer  Sunday 
mornings,  just  as  the  church  doors  were  opening  for  early 
service,  and  after  a  cup  of  coffee  at  a  neighboring  trattoria 
we  would  take  a  long  ramble.  Our  favorite  haunts  were 
the  old  courtyards,  surrounded  by  gray  palace  walls,  with 
their  wonderful  marble  wells,  the  sculptured  curbs  furrowed 
inside  by  the  ropes  and  chains  of  countless  years  and  bear- 
ing on  their  sides  the  coat  of  arms  of  the  former  knightly 
owner.  The  wrought-iron  gratings  which  covered  them, 
works  of  art  in  themselves,  used  to  be  kept  locked,  as  the 
water-supply  was  limited  in  those  days,  and  we  never  tired 



of  the  busy  scene  in  the  early  morning  when  the  wells  were 
opened,  the  flocks  of  women  hurrying  to  get  water  and 
carrying  it  away  on  their  heads  in  beautiful  old  jars  and 
copper  repousse  vessels,  gesticulating,  gossiping,  and  clam- 
oring, in  gayly  colored  groups. 

Sundays  were  Bunney's  hohdays,  but  all  the  week- 
days he  painted  industriously,  usually  keeping  four  differ- 
ent subjects  going  at  the  same  time,  for  the  four  different 
periods  of  the  day.  Bystanders  bothered  him  intensely 
while  he  worked  in  the  streets,  so  he  contrived  an  ingenious 
device,  a  raised  platform,  just  above  the  height  of  an  on- 
looker's eye;  standing  this  out  in  the  square,  he  would  mount 
it  by  some  little  folding  steps  that  he  would  draw  up  after 
him,  and  there  he  would  sit  secure  from  annoyance.  Bun- 
ney's palette  was  very  limited.  Even  in  representing  gold 
he  confined  himself  to  yellow  ochre,  and  eschewed  cadmium 
because,  he  said,  it  would  fade  in  time.  Vcddcr  remarked 
w^hen  I  mentioned  this:  "That's  all  very  well,  but  what 
would  he  do  if  he  had  to  paint  a  fellow  perfectly  covered 
with  cadmium?" 

I  know  another  painter  who  says  that  he  uses  only  white, 
black,  vermihon,  and  yellow  ochre,  and  avers  that  he  can 
paint  anything  with  these  colors.  Some  one  asked  him 
what  he  would  do  if  a  sitter  insisted  on  wearing  a  blue  coat. 

''Why,  I  suppose,"  he  said  with  a  shudder,  "I  should 
have  to  get  some  bkie!" 

"What  kind  of  blue  would  you  use?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'd  ask  the  color  man." 

Bunney  and  I  went  out  to  Murano  to  sec  the  cathedral 
and  were  shocked  to  find  that  it  had  recently  been  restored. 
The  fine  old  carved  woodwork  was  gone;  the  stone  walls, 
mellowed  and  stained  by  time,  refinished  to  a  glaring  new- 
ness;   the  whole  thing  put  in  excellent  repair,  and  simply 



ruined !  It  looked  like  a  perfectly  modern  building.  Al- 
most all  restoration  works  havoc  with  beauty,  but  of  all 
such  sinners  modern  Italians  are  the  worst. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  I  spent  most  of  my  summer 
in  painting.  San  Marco  absorbed  me  for  a  month,  a  mirac- 
ulous old  place — indeed,  it  is  hard  to  beheve  that  great 
cathedrals  like  San  Marco  have  been  made  with  hands; 
they  seem  rather  like  great  trees  to  have  grown  more  beau- 
tiful year  by  year.  In  San  Marco  the  artists  were  privileged; 
we  could  sit  and  paint  wherever  we  pleased,  no  one  ever 
interfering  with  us;  we  were  allowed  to  store  our  easels 
and  canvases  in  the  sacristy — there  were  so  many  of  them 
that  it  looked  more  like  a  studio  than  the  robing-room  of 
a  church — and  Hberal  fees  for  caring  for  our  things  made 
the  sacristans  our  good  friends.  Never  was  there  a  more 
dehghtful  place  to  work  in.  Not  an  hour  passed  without 
its  picturesque  incident — a  procession  of  monks  with  ban- 
ners and  crucifixes  chanting  the  litany  of  the  saints;  boys 
with  swinging  censers,  the  pale  smoke  rising  among  the  por- 
phyry columns  and  statues,  and  half  veiling  the  giant  gold 
mosaic  figures  of  saints  and  prophets  on  the  walls  above; 
or  perhaps,  in  a  side  chapel,  a  baby  being  christened  and 
anointed  with  the  holy  oil.  One  day  I  saw  two  little  girls 
playing  hide  and  seek  for  a  long  time  in  the  confessional 
boxes  along  each  side  of  the  nave.  Nobody  interfered,  for 
the  kneehng  people  in  Itahan  churches  are  usually  ready 
for  a  httle  outside  diversion,  and  after  a  while  they  went 
into  one  of  the  boxes  and  confessed  to  an  old  white-haired 

Among  the  painters  in  San  Marco,  B.  C  Porter  was 
my  particular  friend.  His  color  was  rich  and  fine,  but, 
strange  to  say,  he  was  color-blind,  and  often  had  to  ask 
me  whether  the  mosaic  saint  he  was  painting  was  garbed 



in  red  or  green.  But  when  he  put  it  on  liis  canvas  it  was 
all  right.  Sanford  GifTord  was  also  color-bhnd,  but  he  did 
not  attempt  strongly  contrasted  colors  in  his  beautiful 
landscapes,  but  rather  took  refuge  in  monotones. 

Wilham  Gedney  Bunce  was  a  man  of  whom  we  were 
all  very  fond,  so  fond  that  we  guyed  him  a  good  deal,  al- 
ways calling  him  "Old  Bunce,"  why  I  don't  know,  for  even 
now  he  is  still  vigorous  and  cheerful  His  painting  is  full 
of  feeling  and  beautiful  in  color,  but  his  drawing  has  always 
been  his  weak  point.  We  were  breakfasting  one  day  in  a 
little  cafe  near  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  when  some  one  Ix^gan 
chaffmg  Bunce  about  this. 

"Why  don't  you  learn  to  draw,  Bunce?"  he  said. 

"Well,  you  see  it's  this  way,"  he  answered:  "the  trouble 
with  my  learning  to  draw  is  that  as  soon  as  I  begin  to  draw 
any  object  it  straightway  begins  to  wipplc  !  Now  if  I  were 
really  to  try  to  draw  that  anchor,"  pointing  to  an  old  rusty 
anchor  lying  on  the  quay,  "it  would  immediately  begin 
to  wiggle,  and  before  I  knew  it  would  be  off  in  a  seasick 

At  this  time  Bunce  was  ha\ing  a  great  success  with 
his  pictures  in  England,  for  Queen  Victoria  had  set  the 
fashion  by  buying  several  of  them.  Bunce  told  me  he  met 
Ziem  in  Venice  that  same  summer,  I)ut  didn't  recognize 
him.  In  talking  over  various  artists,  Bunce  remarked  that, 
after  all,  there  was  only  one  man  who  had  ever  painted 
the  true  Venice — that  man  he  said  was  Ziem.  Whereupon 
Ziem  smote  his  breast  deh'ghtedly  and  shouted:  "C'est 
moi — c'est  moi.    Je  suis  le  Ziem!" 

Eugene  Benson  painted  an  interesting  picture  in  \  enice 
that  year.  The  scene  is  laid  in  a  corner  of  the  Doge's  Pakice, 
in  the  gray  light  of  very  early  morning.  Some  revellers — 
clow^ns,    harlequins,    and    other    gay    masques— returning 



from  a  ball,  come  suddenly  upon  a  corpse  laid  out  for  burial. 
It  is  a  gruesome  but  dramatic  subject,  treated  with  skill. 
Benson  was  the  stepfather  of  Miss  Dudu  Fletcher,  the 
author  of  "  Kismet,"  a  well-known  novel  in  its  day,  but  I 
tried  to  read  it  over  again  not  long  ago  and  found  it  pretty 
dull.  I  fancy  most  **best  sellers"  grow  flat  in  forty  years. 
About  this  time  William  Graham,  an  American  painter 
whom  I  had  known  very  well  in  Rome,  married  his  Italian 
landlady  and  settled  in  Venice,  in  a  httle  house  on  a  canal 
near  the  church  of  Santi  Giovanni  e  Paolo,  in  front  of  which 
stands  one  of  the  grandest  statues  in  the  world,  Verrocchio's 
CoIIeone.  Graham's  things  were  fine  in  feehng  and  color, 
but  he  painted  few  finished  pictures,  contenting  himself 
with  making  numberless  careful  sketches  from  nature 
which  he  was  never  concerned  about  selling.  He  was  so 
modest  and  retiring  that  he  let  clients  hunt  him  up,  and 
was  therefore  more  appreciated  among  his  fellow  artists 
than  by  the  general  public.  He  had  such  a  hard  time  getting 
along  that  his  friends  were  much  pleased  when  he  married 
the  lady,  as  she  was  well-to-do,  an  excellent  cook,  and  made 
him  very  comfortable.  They  thought  he  was  well  provided 
for  for  life.  But,  alas !  she  only  lived  for  a  few  years  and 
*'poor  old  Graham,"  as  everybody  aff'ectionately  called  him, 
was  again  drifting  about.  During  the  regime  of  his  efficient 
wife  he  became  trim  and  well  set  up,  with  neat  collars  and 
cuff's  and  well-brushed  clothes,  but  he  soon  lapsed  into  his 
old  threadbare  ways.  He  was  a  tall,  thin,  solemn-looking 
man,  with  a  dry  sense  of  humor.  Before  he  became  a  painter 
he  had  been  in  the  gold  diggings  of  California,  a  **  forty- 
niner,"  and  kept  a  grocery  store  at  one  end  of  a  little  vil- 
lage. At  the  other  end  of  the  street  fived  a  jealous  enemy, 
a  rival  grocer,  who  threatened  to  shoot  him  on  sight. 
Graham  had  a  headstrong  mule,  that  sometimes  ran  away 



and  was  generally  unruly.  One  day  as  he  mounted  his 
mule,  it  took  the  bit  between  its  teeth  and  ran  with  him  pcll- 
mell,  right  through  the  village  and  straight  into  his  rival's 
shop.  His  startled  enemy,  revolver  in  hand,  was  about 
to  shoot,  when  Graham  with  great  presenee  of  mind  thrust 
his  hand  into  his  pocket,  pulled  out  a  dollar,  and  said :  '*  Give 
me  a  pound  of  sugar!"  When  the  enemy  found  a  rival 
transformed  into  a  customer  before  his  eyes,  his  wrath  was 
appeased  and  they  became  firm  friends. 

When  Graham  started  out  from  Rome  on  a  sketching 
tour  for  the  summer,  he  never  decided  beforehand  where 
he  was  going,  but  would  board  a  train  and  whenever  they 
stopped  he  would  take  a  look  at  the  landscape,  and  if  it 
seemed  paintable  he  would  get  out  and  perhaps  spend  the 
whole  summer  there.  In  the  course  of  time  he  turned  up 
in  New  York  and  brought  with  him  all  his  art  accumula- 
tions of  many  years — pictures,  tapestries,  rugs,  and  what 
not,  all  for  sale.  He  had  many  good  things,  among  them 
a  small  and  excellent  example  of  Tiepolo,  who  was  just 
then  being  discovered  by  connoisseurs,  after  a  long  sleep, 
and  becoming  the  fashion.  As  I  wanted  to  help  Graham 
along,  I  told  him  that  I  might  find  him  a  purchaser  for  this 
picture,  for  which  he  asked  a  hundred  dollars.  I  mentioned 
it  to  Francis  Lathrop  and  told  him  that  Graham  would 
take  two  hundred  and  fifty  for  it.  L:ithrop  was  delighted 
with  it,  thought  it  very  cheap,  and  took  it  at  that  price; 
so  I  felt  I  had  done  pretty  well  for  Graham.  C.  C.  Cole- 
man bought  one  of  his  rugs  for  a  small  price  and  sold  it 
for  thousands,  but  with  his  usual  generosity  he  shared  his 
profit  with  Graham. 

Having  sold  his  "roba,"  Graham  could  no  longer  keep 
away  from  Italy.  The  last  I  heard  of  him  was  in  Cipri, 
where  his  old  friends  Veddcr  and  Coleman  looked  out  for 



him  at  the  last.  He  was  a  dear  old  fellow,  gentle  as  a  child. 
Fortunately  his  lovable  qualities  endeared  him  to  his  friends, 
who  never  failed  him  in  hard  places,  and  he  floated  through 
Hfe,  as  Disraeh  says,  "like  lilies  on  the  stream."  He  had 
few  w^ants,  and  if  he  had  enough  of  painting  from  nature 
he  cared  for  nothing  more.     He  had  a  happy  life. 

Venice  is  filled  with  little  stands  for  the  sale  of  fruit 
and  miscellaneous  articles,  one  favorite  dish  being  strips 
of  fried  pumpkin.  Snails  are  also  in  demand,  not  the  large 
snail  of  commerce  which  we  all  know^,  but  a  httle  thing  the 
size  of  a  small  pea,  which  I  have  never  seen  except  in  Venice. 
They  are  very  cheap,  a  centime  buying  a  quantity.  When 
a  purchaser  buys  a  handful,  they  are  handed  out  to  him 
on  a  large  vine-leaf  with  a  small  piece  of  wood  like  a  tooth- 
pick, with  which  he  extracts  them  from  their  shells  and 
consumes  them  as  he  idles  along  the  street.  While  I  was 
sitting  painting  one  day,  I  observed  two  wayfarers  stop 
at  one  of  these  stands.  One  spent  a  centime  for  a  vine-leaf 
of  snails.  He  did  not  offer  any  to  his  friend,  who  watched 
him  feast  with  hungry  eyes  until  they  were  almost  gone, 
when  he  could  stand  it  no  longer  and  timidly  asked  for 
one,  but  the  glutton  dechned — it  seemed  to  me  about  the 
meanest  thing  I  had  ever  seen.  Centimes  were  used  in 
Venice  a  great  deal  because  of  the  extreme  poverty  of  the 
people.  You  know,  at  every  landing-place  for  gondolas 
there  is  always  an  old  fellow  bearing  a  hooked  stick  to  hold 
the  gondola  in  place,  who  helps  the  passenger  to  alight 
and,  of  course,  expects  a  gratuity,  usually  a  ten-centime 
piece,  equal  to  one  cent  of  our  money.  I  once  meanly 
dropped  a  centime  in  the  old  man's  cap,  and  he  felt  so  in- 
sulted at  the  smallness  of  the  gift  that  he  turned  his  cap 
over  and  dropped  the  coin  into  the  water;  but  I  think  it 
was  only  bluff — no  one  in  Venice  would  throw  away  even 



a  centime,  and  I  am  certain  thai  when  I  had  gone  he  dived 
in  after  it. 

Haseltine  and  I  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in  the  antiquity 
shops,  very  keen  about  finding  good  things  cheap.  And 
what  splendid  chances  for  picking  up  "roba  antica"  there 
were  in  those  days !  Not  once  have  I  regretted  anything 
that  I  bought,  saving  all  my  regrets  for  not  buying  many 
things  that  I  coveted  but  did  not  think  I  could  afford.  The 
dealers  always  asked  much  more  than  they  were  wilh'ng 
to  take,  often  three  or  four  times  as  much,  and  they  despised 
you  for  a  green  "forestiere,"  if  you  immediately  gave  them 
their  price.  Brass  plates  of  the  fifteenth  century  were  much 
prized  and  were  plentiful  in  those  days,  when  few  people 
except  artists  were  collectors  of  bric-a-brac.  Whenever 
one  of  their  numerous  festas  came  along,  all  the  people  took 
a  holiday  and  thronged  the  streets  in  their  best  clothes; 
booths  would  be  erected  along  the  pavement,  decorated 
with  green  boughs;  those  for  the  sale  of  fried  fish  invariably 
displayed  a  row  of  these  brightly  polished  brass  plates, 
about  eighteen  inches  across,  usually  with  a  scriptural  sub- 
ject in  the  middle  and  Gothic  lettering  around  the  edge. 
Most  of  them  were  cheap  modern  imitations,  but  among 
them  would  generally  be  one  or  two  choice  old  ones  which 
were  always  for  sale  at  some  price  or  other,  generally  about 
twenty-five  francs.  I  acquired  several  on  these  occasions, 
and  Haseltine  bought  two  or  three  dozen  for  his  Wnv  palazzo 
in  Rome.  One  of  Haseltine's  most  cherished  possessions 
was  a  splendid  tapestry  that  he  had  bought  from  the  great 
Fortuny.  I  happened  to  learn  that  it  was  probalily  one 
of  a  set  belonging  to  the  Spanish  royal  family,  one  of  which 
was  missing  and  was  supposed  to  have  been  stolen.  Hasel- 
tine was  a  good  deal  disturbed  by  this  report,  fearing  that 
it  might  be  claimed,  but  I  don't  think  it  ever  was. 



In  Venice,  the  summer  before,  I  heard  of  some  old  tapes- 
tries in  a  private  house;  the  owner  threw  them  down  from 
an  upper-story  window  into  a  courtyard  and  spread  them 
out  there  for  me  to  see.  I  was  fascinated  by  one  of  the 
smaller  ones  showing  a  pretty  garden  scene,  with  many 
small  figures,  charming  little  knights  and  ladies,  strolling 
about  under  the  trees — always  designated  by  its  owner, 
who  spoke  broken  English,  as  the  one  with  the  "small 
fidgers."  I  liked  it  immensely,  but  the  price  was  six  thou- 
sand francs,  so  I  did  not  consider  it. 

When  I  came  back  the  following  summer,  the  owner 
would  turn  up  every  now  and  then  when  I  was  painting 
in  the  streets  and  ask  me  how  much  I  would  give  for  the 
tapestry  with  the  "small  fidgers."  He  always  refused  my 
offers,  but  finally,  when  the  summer  had  passed  and  "fore- 
stieri"  were  few,  he  began  reducing  his  price  and  at  last 
came  down  to  three  thousand  francs.  A  few  days  before 
I  left,  I  told  him  that  it  was  his  last  chance,  and  offered 
him  five  hundred  francs,  which  to  my  surprise  he  promptly 
accepted  and  threw  the  tapestry  down  to  me  out  of  the 
window.  I  have  it  now  and  have  refused  a  good  price  for 

It  was  in  Venice  that  I  bought,  for  a  hundred  francs, 
one  of  my  best  things,  a  very  fine  marriage  chest  carved 
with  a  lovely  design  in  low  relief.  There  is  an  exact  duplicate 
of  it  in  Perugia,  the  design  attributed  to  Perugino.  It  had 
dolphins  at  the  corners,  but  as  their  heads  were  gone  I  had 
a  fittle  Roman  wood-carver  make  some  heads  which  matched 
the  old  work  exactly.  This  man  in  the  Via  Capo  le  Case 
had  a  genius  for  imitating  the  old  carving.  With  a  few 
rude  tools — a  saw,  a  chisel,  and  a  mallet — not  following  any 
design,  he  cut  things  right  from  his  own  head  that  were 
really  fine — not  the  sandpapered  stuff  glued  on  a  flat  back- 



ground  that  the  carvers  do  in  Florence,  but  solid  work, 
the  design  melting  into  the  Hat  surface  but  shelving  the 
sharp  marks  of  the  chisel,  hke  the  modcMing  of  the  Itah'an 
sculptors  of  the  fifteenth  century  or  the  work  of  Augustus 
Saint  Gaudens. 

I  was  once  driving  in  a  cab  in  the  outskirts  of  Paris 
with  Saint  Gaudens  when  we  espied  in  a  little  shop  two 
old  Gothic  carved  oak  panels.  We  immediately  jumped 
out  and  bought  them  for  a  trifle,  each  of  us  taking  one. 
Afterward  in  New  York,  I  lent  mine  to  McKim  and  he  used 
it  as  a  motive  and  as  a  model  for  the  carver,  in  the  style 
of  cutting,  for  the  panels  of  the  beautiful  pulpit  in  the 
Church  of  the  Ascension  which  he  designed  and  had  car- 
ried out  under  his  own  eye.  It  was  also  in  Paris,  in  a  car- 
penter's shop,  that  I  discovered  a  splendid  chest,  covered 
with  pigskin  and  profusely  studded  with  ornamental  copper 
nails  in  intricate  designs,  with  bronze  handles  and  lock 
in  the  form  of  lovely  dolphins.  It  is  of  about  the  time  of 
Louis  XIV,  and  may  have  belonged  to  the  Dauphin.  Stan- 
ford White  admired  it  so  much  that  he  took  a  rubbing  of 
it  for  some  leather  work  which  he  was  then  doing.  It  was 
in  another  carpenter's  shop,  this  one  on  the  Via  Sistina 
in  Rome,  that  I  found  two  small  bronze  portrait  medallions 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  worthy  of  the  period,  of  which 
I  have  never  seen  any  reproductions. 

A  terra-cotta  bas-relief  for  a  shrine,  which  I  discovered 
in  Florence  in  1872,  is  of  the  time  of  DonatcIIo,  a  Madonna 
and  Child,  most  delicately  colored  and  with  lovely  faces. 
There  is  one  in  Turin  by  DonatcIIo  with  figures  exactly 
like  mine,  but  where  mine  has  a  flat  background  with  a 
sort  of  arabesque  or  tapestry  design,  that  in  Turin  has  two 
wreaths  interlaced.     I  bought  this  for  thirty-five  francs. 

One  of  the  best  antiquity  dealers  in  Venice  had  his  shop 



in  a  splendid  old  palace  on  the  Grand  Canal,  its  ceilings 
covered  with  fine  old  faded  frescoes  and  everything  about 
it  just  as  it  had  been  in  the  fifteenth  century.  Strange  to 
relate,  though  he  was  quite  up  on  all  phases  of  ancient  art, 
he  had  another  and  very  different  caHing— he  was  a  butcher ! 
It  is  hard  to  understand  how  he  could  reconcile  himself  to 
occupations  so  incongruous.  His  daughter  usually  sat  in 
the  shop  and  did  the  selhng,  and  as  I  wanted  badly  a  re- 
pousse brass  plate  which  they  had,  I  would  offer  her  twenty- 
five  francs  for  it  whenever  I  happened  in,  but  she  always 
decHned.  The  day  before  I  left  Venice  I  walked  in — the 
daughter  was  sitting  there — I  put  down  twenty-five  francs 
on  the  counter  and  walked  off  with  the  plate  under  my  arm. 
She  threw  up  both  hands  and  exclaimed: 

"ManodiDio!    Mano  di  Dio  ! " 

I  also  bought  in  Venice  a  very  unusual  marriage-chest 
front,  of  the  fourteenth  century.  It  is  made  of  walnut, 
carved  in  low  relief  with  figures  of  huntsmen  and  horses 
returning  from  a  boar-hunt,  black  with  age,  but  brightened 
with  the  remains  of  gilding  in  spots  here  and  there.  De- 
ciding to  treat  it  as  a  shelf,  I  got  the  Capo  le  Case  wood- 
carver  to  add  a  grotesque  head  at  each  end  and  a  shelf  above, 
and  later  I  had  it  built  into  a  mantelpiece  at  Danskammer 
with  good  effect. 

One  day,  wandering  into  an  ancient  Venetian  palazzo, 
I  saw  hanging  in  the  hall  an  etching  by  Albert  Diirer — 
the  horse  with  a  mailed  figure  walking  by  its  side — and 
bought  it  for  ten  francs.  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  an 
original  or  not  but  it  is  good  enough  to  be.  Perhaps  it  is 
by  Marc  Antonio,  who  engraved  Diirer's  things  in  Venice. 
I  remember  in  Padua  asking  an  antiquity  dealer  if  he  had 
any  old  books.  He  said,  yes,  that  he  would  show  me  a 
few,  and  took  me  to  an  old  palace  where  the  garret  was 



filled  with  at  least  a  thousand  volumes,  most  of  them  of 
very  early  printing,  with  vellum  bindings  and  many  with 
metal  clasps.  He  told  me  I  could  help  myself  to  any  book 
in  the  collection  at  a  franc  each,  but  I  had  no  means  of 
carrying  them.  I  bought  only  one,  a  treatise  on  some  Latin 
particle,  with  a  stamped  leather  binding,  classic  heads  and 
ornaments,  and  brass  clasps. 

When  I  went  to  a  new  place  in  traxeUing,  I  often  sought 
out  the  antiquity  shops  before  I  visited  the  great  sights, 
and  now  when  I  look  at  my  little  collection  at  home  each 
object  has  a  history  and  recalls  some  delightful  hunt  in 
out-of-the-way  corners  of  many  an  old  city.  But  I  must 
not  let  my  love  for  "roba  antica"  run  away  with  me,  al- 
though I  am  mentioning  all  these  acquisitions  partly  to 
show  how  cheaply  in  those  days  one  could  pick  up  really 
good  things.  What  treasures  I  could  have  secured  for  the 
Metropolitan  Museum  if  they  had  let  me  buy  for  them ! 

I  once  had  an  adventure  in  an  antiquity  shop  that  might 
have  been  more  serious  than  amusing.  One  afternoon  I 
visited  Innocenti's,  in  the  Via  Frattina  in  Rome,  and  ex- 
amined some  coins  that  Innocenti  himself  showed  me,  one 
of  them  gold,  about  the  size  of  a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece. 
I  thought  that  I  returned  it  to  him,  but  the  next  morning 
while  shaving  I  took  up  my  waistcoat  and  to  my  horror 
found  this  coin  in  the  pocket !  With  the  lather  still  on 
my  face  I  hurried  into  my  coat  and  rushed  down  to  In- 
nocenti's and  found  him  just  taking  down  his  shutters, 
for  it  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock.  I  gave  him  the  coin  with 
breathless  apologies.  He  was  not  disturbed — he  said  that 
he  had  seen  me  put  it  in  my  pocket,  but  knew  that  it  would 
be  all  right. 

That  summer  in  Venice  most  of  the  artists  and  writers 
would  meet  at  Florian's  celebrated  restaurant  umicr  the 



colonnade  of  the  Square  of  San  Marco,  and  there,  grouped 
around  little  tables,  we  would  listen  to  the  band,  eat  ices, 
drink  coffee,  and  consume  "caramelli"  that  men  brought 
around  on  trays — candied  fruits  of  every  description,  grapes, 
plums,  and  apricots,  speared  on  bits  of  wood  like  tooth- 
picks. In  those  days,  living  in  Venice  was  extraordinarily 
cheap,  and  two  people  could  dine  at  a  good  restaurant  for 
sixty  cents.  The  doors  of  Florian's  were  never  closed  day 
or  night — had  not  been,  it  is  said,  in  a  hundred  years.  Alas, 
they  are  closed  to-day,  in  191 7! 

When  the  Austrians  were  in  possession  in  1869,  their 
smart  light-blue  and  white  uniforms  were  everywhere,  and 
I  thought  these  elaborately  gotten-up  officers  were  the 
handsomest  men  I  had  ever  seen.  And  when  I  first  sat 
under  the  arches  at  Florian's  hstening  to  the  music,  it  was 
the  Austrian  band  that  played  for  us.  But  in  1872  they 
had  given  way  to  the  Italians.  The  strains  of  the  band 
floated  across  to  us  from  the  opposite  corner  of  the  square, 
bathed  in  silver  moonhght;  every  hour  the  two  Moors  on 
the  clock-tower  would  beat  out  the  time  with  clanging 
strokes;  flower-girls  would  saunter  by  and  pin  little  bouquets 
in  our  buttonholes.  We  had  pleasant  times  at  Florian's, 
under  the  arches. 

There  was  a  foolish  little  game  we  used  to  play  at 
Florian's— some  one  would  throw  a  half-smoked  cigar  out 
on  the  pavement  and  we  would  proceed  to  bet  as  to  whether 
a  passer-by  from  the  right  or  from  the  left  would  pick  it 
up;  the  loser  would  pay  for  the  ices  or  carameHi.  Hasel- 
tine  hked  more  substantial  fodder  than  ices,  however,  and 
he  would  often  sHp  away  for  half  an  hour  and  adjourn  to 
the  Hotel  Baur  for  one  of  their  famous  beefsteaks,  and 
come  back  to  us  redolent  of  onions. 

Henry  James  was  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  the 



men  one  met  at  Florian's.  My  first  acquaintance  with 
him  was  at  a  picture  gallery  in  Bologna  in  1869,  ^^hcrc  we 
fraternized  in  discussing  the  pictures,  and  he  was  then  a 
handsome  young  man,  not  yet  famous.  At  this  time  in 
Venice  he  had  "arrived,"  and  had  already  done  much  of 
his  best  work.  Another  literary  man  I  met  in  Venice  was 
T.  Adolphus  TroIIope,  accompanied  in'  his  lovdy  daughter 
Beatrice.  He  looked  a  good  deal  hke  his  brother  Anthony, 
a  bluff,  hearty  man,  rather  stout  and  red. 

^  You  never  paint  in  the  streets  of  Venice  without  some- 
thing amusing  happening.  As  I  was  making  a  sketch  one 
day  of  a  marble  column  with  a  cross  on  the  top  and  steps 
around  the  base,  I  casually  put  in  the  figure  of  a  pretty 
young  girl  who  happened  to  sit  knitting  on  one  of  the  steps. 
I  had  just  got  her  in  to  my  satisfaction  when  she  strolled 
round  behind  me,  and  reaching  deftly  forward,  before  I 
could  stop  her,  with  one  sweep  ©f  her  thumb  wiped  the 
whole  figure  out  of  the  picture.  Like  the  Indians  in  the 
West,  the  peasants  hate  to  be  sketched,  thinking  it  sub- 
jects them  to  the  power  of  the  evil  eye.  Another  time  I 
was  painting  the  window  of  a  church  from  a  gondola  moored 
quietly  under  the  wall;  in  the  stern  lay  the  gondolier, 
stretched  flat  on  his  back  with  his  mouth  wide  open,  en- 
joying the  usual  siesta.  Suddenly,  without  warning,  a  pail- 
ful of  slops  was  cast  from  an  upper  window,  directly  into 
his  peaceful  face.  He  was  deluged.  With  a  shriek  the 
poor  fellow  dived  headlong  into  the  canal,  clothes  and  ail. 
I  wonder  if  the  fishing-boats  in  Venice  are  still  as  Ix'au- 
tiful  as  they  were  in  those  days:  their  colored  sails,  usually 
a  rich  amber,  adorned  with  some  device — the  more  am- 
bitious with  a  Madonna,  a  crucifix,  or  some  such  reh'gious 
emblem — the  nets  a  warm  brown,  strung  up  to  dry  on  the 
masts  and  rigging  and  hanging  in  graceful  folds;   the  black 



hulls  painted  on  the  prow  with  quaint  names,  such  as 
"  Honora  Fatica  "  or  *'  Rene  di  Mari."  The  time  to  see  them 
in  their  glory  was  the  early  morning,  when  they  returned 
in  great  fleets  with  their  catch  of  the  night  before  to  their 
chief  rendezvous,  the  quay  back  of  the  PubHc  Garden. 
I  spent  many  happy  mornings  in  the  comfortable  seat  of 
a  gondola,  painting  these  charming  little  vessels  grouped 
along  the  shore  or  dotting  a  distant  lagoon.  Those  were 
ideal  days ! 

John  W.  Bunney  to  D.  M.  A.,  New  York 

Fondamenta  San  Biagio,  Venice.     Jan.,  1874. 

"...  I  have  not  forgotten  the  pleasant  companion- 
ship we  had  in  Venice.  I  heard  from  Graham  that  you 
had  gone  in  for  art  at  last  and  set  up  a  studio  in  New  York. 
May  your  fullest  hopes  and  liveliest  anticipations  be  fully 
realized,  and  when  love  is  the  foundation-stone  can  one 
desire  a  better  wish  for  a  fellow  worker ! 

Last  summer  we  had  cholera  from  June  to  October, 
close  quarantine  by  way  of  the  sea,  and  no  bathers.  I  could 
look  across  from  my  balcony  to  the  Salute  and  the  Giudecca 
and  not  see  a  single  vessel.  Nearly  all  the  gaiety  in  Venice 
was  confined  to  the  artists,  who  kept  up  a  constant  run  of 
dissipation  in  the  way  of  dancing  at  the  Lido  and  picnics 
at  Sant'  Elena.  Some  of  them  admitted  to  me  that  they 
felt  no  disposition  to  w^ork,  and  thought  it  might  be  the 
scirocco  or  the  bad  air  of  Venice,  at  which  I  grinned  and 
said  nothing!  Yewell  was  here  and  worked  hard;  he  went 
to  Cadore  for  a  month  and  the  sketches  he  did  there  pleased 
me  much.  His  things  in  the  church  here  have  in  them  such 
a  look  of  marble  and  truth  of  colour  that  I  feel  he  is  going 
on  fast,  by  steady  indomitable  courage  in  not  turning 
aside  either  to  fashion  on  the  one  hand  or  tricks  of  clever 



execution  on  the  other.     Graham  showed  me  a  delicious 
bit  outside  one  of  the  gates  of  Rome,  sueh  sweet  (cvlinir 
and  quiet  subdued  colour,  not  naturalistic,  but  very  prx'tic 
such  a  picture  as  one  could  turn  to  in  anxious  irritable  mc> 
ments  and  get  peace  and  strength.     Then  we  had  some 
Spaniards  from  Paris,  whose  work  gave  me  food  for  thought  • 
I  don't  say  they  were  entirely  satisfactory,  but  they  had 
a  fascination  that  was  not  only  attractive  but  satisfactory 
Well,  about  my  own  work— I  think,  or  rather  I  know, 
that  I  can  do  things  now  that  I  could  not  when  you  were 
here.     But  it  is  a  hard  fight  to  keep  pace  with  clever  exe- 
cution on  the  one  hand,  and  French  feeling  on  the  other,— 
not  that  I  despise  clever  execution  or  French  feeling.'    I 
look  on  with  a  great  desire,  when  I  see  how  freely  men  do 
that  which  I  cannot,  how  much  they  get  with  scarcely  any 
effort  or  means;   and  my  reverence  is  great  for  that  lovely 
feeling  which  the  French  and  Spaniards  get  into  their  work. 
Now  when  are  you  coming  back  to  Italy  and  Venice? 
We  often  talk  of  you  all,  and  iMaggie  and  Pippo  would  be 
glad    to   see    their   pretty    h"ttle   golden-haired    playfellow 

Every  morning  for  years  after  I  left  Italy,  with  my  first 
w^aking  thoughts  I  would  begin  to  plan  how  I  could  return, 
and  often  I  regretted  that  because  of  the  inadequate  salary 
I  had  resigned  my  position  as  consul-general.  But  a.s  I 
look  back  now  I  am  satisfied.  I  am  glad  that  my  children 
were  brought  up  Americans. 




"Youth  is  a  house  that  has  no  stairs  at  all, 
And  like  a  ship  at  sea  is  manhood's  prime." 

The  Falcone  was  an  ancient  Roman  trattoria,  opening 
its  hospitable  doors  just  back  of  the  Pantheon  on  one  of 
the  crooked  streets  that  tie  themselves  into  a  dozen  bow- 
knots  in  an  effort  to  wriggle  somehow  into  a  respectable 
part  of  town.  To  those  famihar  with  modern  Rome  the 
vicinity  of  the  Pantheon  will  seem  an  unexpected  spot  in 
which  to  discover  a  favorite  cafe,  but  in  the  early  seventies 
the  Falcone  was  much  patronized  by  the  artistic  fraternity. 
The  billowy  primitive  stone  floor  and  the  tables  furrowed 
and  black  with  age  could  not  detract  a  whit  from  the  fra- 
grance of  the  macaroni  sizzling  in  the  next  room,  while  the 
heads  of  old  wine-casks  that  studded  the  walls  but  reminded 
us  that  there  still  remained  much  chianti  to  be  met  and 
conquered.  The  American  and  English  artists  who  en- 
joyed the  Falcone's  savory  meals  were  not  always  famous, 
but  they  satisfactorily  enough  made  up  for  the  lack  of  ap- 
preciation in  others  by  at  any  rate  unreservedly  admitting 
to  each  other  that  they  were  far  and  away  the  best. 

Here  it  was  that  the  sculptor  Rhinehart  (or  "Rhiny," 
as  he  was  known  to  his  fellows,  a  man  **of  infinite  wit") 
was  host  at  a  jolly  dinner  one  sultry  July  night  in  1872 — 
the  3d  of  the  month  it  was,  for  I  remember  how  patriotic 
we  became  as  morning  drew  near.  And  it  had  drawn  dis- 
gracefully near  before  all  the  tales  were  told  and  all  the 



songs  sung  by  the  convivial  crowd,  among  whom  I  remember 
Vedder  and  Coleman.  At  the  long  table  also  sat  George 
Simmons,  the  English  sculptor  whose  "Falconer"  adorns 
a  rocky  knoll  in  Central  Park,  The  name  of  my  next  neigh- 
bor was  Augustus  Saint  Gaudens.  His  personality  strongly 
impressed  me,  and  there  and  then  began  a  friendship 
destined  to  last  till  the  day  of  his  death. 

When  my  new-found  friend  and  I  sallied  out  after  dinner, 
we  came  upon  Vedder  sitting  on  one  of  the  large  stones  at 
the  corner  of  the  Via  Frattina  and  the  Piazza  di  Spagna, 
gazing  with  solemn  attention  at  the  moon  as  it  hung  In 
quiet  glory  over  the  Pincian  HilL  Dawn  was  just  touching 
the  skies  and  the  chill  of  early  morning  was  in  the  air.  But 
from  that  position  not  all  the  expostulations  of  Saint  Gau- 
dens and  myself  could  budge  Vedder,  and  after  a  time  we 
forbore  and  left  him  still  sitting  on  his  stone  in  silent  con- 
templation. The  next  day  I  departed  for  Venice,  and  a 
year  passed  before  I  could  renew  my  acquaintance  with 
Saint  Gaudens. 

The  end  of  a  year  saw  us  both  on  this  side  of  the  At- 
lantic, and  many  were  the  experiences  we  had  in  New  York 
in  the  old  building  on  the  corner  of  Fourth  Avenue  and 
Fourteenth  Street.  It  still  is  occupied  by  the  German  Sav- 
ings Bank,  but  in  those  days  there  were  a  number  of  vacant 
up-stairs  rooms  used  as  studios.  We  each  rented  one  of 
these,  and  for  several  years  I  saw  him  almost  daily;  dis- 
couraging and  depressing  years  they  were  for  him,  although 
maybe  not  really  so  hard  as  the  earher  ones  he  had  spent 
as  a  student  at  the  Beaux  Arts. 

Saint  Gaudens  had  been  working  for  some  time  on  a 
small  recumbent  female  figure,  which  was  finally  cast  in 
plaster  and  sent  to  the  Academy  of  Design.  It  was  re- 
jected.   He  had  also  before  this,  in  Rome,  made  a  marble 



figure  of  "Silence"  for  a  Masonic  temple,  but  the  Masons, 
knowing  little  of  art,  didn't  like  it  and  were  prevailed  upon 
to  accept  it  only  after  he  had  spent  weary  weeks  at  work, 
himself  cutting  and  chipping  the  marble  after  it  was  already 
in  place.  They  now  congratulate  themselves,  it  is  said,  on 
having  knowm  enough  to  secure  the  w^ork  of  a  great  sculptor  ! 

The  father  of  Saint  Gaudens  was  a  shoemaker  who 
kept  his  shop  next  to  the  old  Academy  of  Design  in  Fourth 
Avenue.  I  often  met  him.  He  was  an  erect  old  French- 
man with  a  fine  leonine  head,  an  aristocratic  bearing,  and 
good  blood  in  his  veins,  I  am  sure.  Saint  Gaudens  had 
no  regular  education  to  speak  of,  though  his  active  mind 
readily  acquired  bits  of  knowledge,  and  later  on  in  life  he 
was  a  very  well-educated  man.  At  the  time  of  which  I 
speak,  how'ever,  he  was  innocent  of  even  an  acquaintance 
with  many  of  the  masterpieces  of  literature.  He  once  asked 
me  where  he  could  find  an  accurate  story  of  Moses.  Rather 
amused,  I  lent  him  the  obvious  book.  Late  that  night  he 
came  back  into  my  studio  in  a  great  state  of  excitement, 
carrying  in  his  hand  the  Bible  I  had  lent  him. 

"I've  never  read  this  before,"  he  exclaimed.  "It's 
the  most  remarkable  thing  I  have  ever  seen." 

Saint  Gaudens  often  told  me  of  the  trials  he  had  suf- 
fered as  an  apprentice  to  a  cameo-cutter,  a  Frenchman, 
who  spent  his  hohdays  and  Sundays  in  shooting  snipe  on 
the  Weehawken  Flats.  The  young  craftsman  w^as  com- 
pelled to  walk  all  day,  lugging  his  master's  game-bag  and 
running  after  the  snipe  he  shot.  Never  would  he  admit, 
even  in  confidence,  that  the  bag  was  a  heavy  one,  so  loath 
was  he  to  give  "that  fellow"  credit  for  anything;  but  there 
is  not  much  hazard  in  the  guess  that  snipe  were  then  in  a 
more  flourishing  condition  on  the  "Flats"  than  is  the  case 
to-day,  and  that  the  sport  was  pretty  good — for  the  master. 



Cameo-cutting  was  soon  abandoned,  but  not  before 
Saint  Gaudens  had  become  very  skilful  at  the  trade.  This 
training  I  have  no  doubt  greatly  influenced  his  whole  ar- 
tistic career.  Upon  returning  to  America  after  his  first 
trip  abroad  he  was  desperately  poor,  and  during  most  of 
one  winter  he  and  the  sculptor  Palmer  slept  in  a  storeroom 
on  the  same  floor  as  our  studios,  using  as  beds  the  great 
empty  packing-boxes  of  some  furniture  that  had  come  to 
me  from  Italy. 

In  those  days  Mr.  Robert  Gordon's  house  was  a 
rendezvous  of  artists  and  their  friends,  and  every  winter 
Mr.  Gordon  gave  a  large  reception,  with  a  splendid  spread, 
to  which  the  artists  considered  it  quite  the  thing  to  be  in- 
vited. Entirely  different  from  any  of  the  present-day  func- 
tions, they  were  a  distinct  feature  of  New  York  life,  and 
were  looked  forward  to  from  year  to  year.  To  one  of  these 
I  obtained  an  invitation  for  Saint  Gaudens,  and  while  we 
were  there  introduced  him  to  Doctor  Noyes,  the  famous 
surgeon  and  oculist.  The  conversation  having  turned  u|X)n 
hospitals,  Saint  Gaudens  related  to  Doctor  Noyes  how 
once  as  a  child,  while  playing  in  his  father's  workshop,  he 
had  cut  a  long  gash  in  his  arm  and  as  a  result  had  been 
carried  to  a  hospital  near  by.  Pulling  up  his  sleeve,  he 
showed  the  scar.  Doctor  Noyes  said:  "I  remember  the 
wound  as  distinctly  as  I  do  the  brave  h'ttle  boy.  I  was 
the  doctor  who  sewed  it  up  !" 

In  his  younger  days  Saint  Gaudens  was  shy  and  avoided 
somewhat  the  company  of  the  great,  and  he  described  to 
me  as  one  of  his  early  trials  his  modelling  of  a  bust  of  a 
distinguished  diplomat.  This  gentleman's  doctor  had  or- 
dered him  to  soak  his  feet,  so  when  he  posed  for  my  friend 
he  sat  wrapped  up  in  a  blanket  on  a  high  chair,  his  feet 
stuck  in  a  tub  of  water  which  it  was  part  of  Saint  Gaudcns's 



duty  to  keep  hot.  When  the  bust  was  well  under  way,  Saint 
Gaudens  noticed  that  the  distinguished  diplomat  kept 
bringing  the  conversation  around  to  Socrates  and  Seneca, 
Marcus  Aurelius  and  Plato.  The  reason  for  this  was  not 
long  obscure. 

"I  find,"  said  the  D.  D.,  "after  a  careful  examination, 
that  all  these  distinguished  men  had  very  broad  foreheads 
—just  broaden  mine  a  bit."  So  Saint  Gaudens,  afraid  to 
object,  meekly  compHed.  Repeated  urgings  and  the  re- 
suhant  broadenings  brought  the  forehead  finally  to  the 
point  where  it  seemed  to  be  affected  with  some  dreadful 
swelling  disease.  But  this  did  not  bring  complete  satis- 
faction to  the  heart  of  the  sitter.  He  suggested  that  these 
same  great  forerunners  of  his  were  also  notable  for  having 
had  very  deep-set  eyes.  So  poor  Saint  Gaudens  was  forced 
to  bore  and  bore,  deeper  and  deeper,  until  he  almost  pierced 
through  to  the  back.  He  told  me  this  story  with  great 
excitement,  interspersing  in  the  narrative  many  uncom- 
plimentary remarks  on  celebrities  in  general,  and  illustrat- 
ing it  all  by  puffing  out  his  cheeks  and  making  violent  bor- 
ing gestures  with  his  forefinger.  He  said  he'd  give  any- 
thing to  get  hold  of  that  bust  and  smash  it  to  atoms. 

By  nature  modest  and  retiring,  nothing  bored  him  more 
than  to  be  thrust  forward,  especially  if  the  particular  kind 
of  torture  happened  to  be  public  speaking.  His  literary 
style  was  terse  and  vivid,  and  he  showed  it  to  advantage 
in  his  letters,  frequently  illustrating  them,  too,  with  humor- 
ous scraps  of  drawings  and  using  for  signature  a  caricature 
of  his  own  long  profile.  His  manners  were  always  most 
attractive,  but  he  cared  Kttle  for  dress  and  despised  all  its 
afi"ectations.  I  remember  that  he  bore  a  particular  grudge 
against  the  pointed  shoes  that  used  to  be  fashionable,  and 
was  continually  making  fun  of  mine.     But  this  lack  of  in- 



terest  in  clothes  did  not  hinder  him  from  admirably  de- 
picting them,  as  witness  the  Farragut  and  Lincoln  statues. 
La  Farge  told  me  he  thought  Saint  Gaudens  in  his  Lin- 
coln had  obtained  the  most  successful  result  that  he  had 
ever  seen  in  the  struggle  of  dealing  arlistically  with  the 
problem  of  modern  dress. 

In  1877  I  found  that  Mrs.  Edward  King  thought  of 
erecting  a  monument  at  Newport  in  memory  of  her  hus- 
band, and  it  occurred  to  me  that  Saint  Gaudens  and  La 
Farge  would  be  an  excellent  pair  to  execute  the  work,  so 
I  introduced  my  two  friends  to  each  other  with  this  in  view, 
and  spoke  of  them  to  Mrs.  King.  They  were  promptly 
engaged,  and  this  was  the  first  really  successful  order  secured 
by  Saint  Gaudens.  Soon  after  their  first  meeting,  La  Farge 
asked  Saint  Gaudens  and  me  to  dine  with  him  in  his  studio 
in  the  old  Tenth  Street  building,  and  the  beautiful  King 
monument  resulted  from  their  discussion  that  evening. 
Another  of  the  joint  work  of  these  two  friends  of  mine  was 
the  reredos  in  St.  Thomas's  Church,  afterward  destroyed 
by  fire,  of  which  I  shall  speak  when  I  set  down  my  impres- 
sions of  La  Farge.  Saint  Gaudens  alludes  to  both  the  monu- 
ment and  the  angels  in  the  following  letter,  in  which  he 
also  speaks  of  the  bas-relief  he  had  made  of  me  while  wc 
were  together  in  New  York.  This  was  the  first  of  the  in- 
teresting medallions  he  afterward  often  made.  The  letter 
is  signed,  as  was  his  custom,  with  an  outline  of  his  own 
most  characteristic  profile. 

Augustus  Saint  Gaudens  to  D.  M.  A.,  Danskammcr 

Rome,  i8~8. 
".  .  .     Such  a  time  I  had  as  you  never  saw.     I  did  it 
because  Dr.  Morgan  gave  me  to  understand  that  Li  Farge 
would  be  ready  in  time.     I  was  sure  he  would  not  be,  but 



as  I  did  not  care  to  bear  the  responsibility  of  the  delay, 
I  did  the  work.  That  was  last  October,  La  Farge  has  not  yet 
finished !  I  regret  very  much  he  did  not  tell  me  he  would 
not  be  ready  for  then  I  would  have  passed  a  great  deal  more 
time,  studied  up  the  Renaissance  and  produced  a  better 
thing.  It  was  not  a  money  affair,  I  spent  more  than  I  got 
for  it,  and  I  regret  I  was  not  allowed  at  least  to  do  as  well 
as  I  could.  *J'ai  pris  mon  parti,'  as  they  say  in  French. 
I  said  something  has  got  to  be  sacrificed  so  I'll  go  in  for 
the  general  character. 

After  that  was  over  I  finished  the  tomb,  and  within 
a  week  or  so  it  will  be  on  its  way  to  America.  On  New 
Year's  day  I  left  Paris  for  Rome.  We  had  a  splendid  trip, 
stopping  tho'  only  at  Pisa.  Do  you  know  I  believe  my 
stay  in  America  has  done  me  no  harm.  I  appreciate  all 
the  grand  works  more  than  ever.  On  arriving  in  Rome  I 
had  a  hard  time  getting  a  studio,  but  am  finally  settled  in 
Simmons',  the  Englishman's  studio.  I  have  half  of  it  and 
am  hard  at  work;  the  shawls  are  hung  on  the  wall,  and 
on  them  the  colored  medallions  as  of  old,  the  reclining  figure 
in  front  as  usual,  and  on  a  piece  of  wood  hung  on  the  shawl, 
a  small  medallion  in  bronze  which  is  the  portrait  of  one  of 
my  best  friends  of  whom  I  have  the  fondest  recollections; 
I  modelled  it  in  New  York  just  before  I  left.  Rather  a 
short  man,  a  heavy  moustache,  an  open  eye — Mr.  La  Farge 
said  that  his  face  looked  in  parts  as  if  it  was  'tied  up  in  a 
knot' — notwithstanding  that  he's  a  pretty  good  kind  of  a 
fellow.  I  have  sent  that  medallion  in  a  box,  with  a  plaster 
bust  of  Admiral  Farragut,  both  of  which  are  to  be  exhibited 
at  Kurtz  gallery  in  March.  When  the  exhibition  is  over, 
Mr.  Walter  Shirlaw,  the  President  of  the  Association,  will 
according  to  my  authorization,  remit  the  medallion  to  Sig- 
nor  Bracciaforte  in  English — Bracciajorte  in  English,  not 



the  medallion — The  gentleman  I  mean  is  nut  twu  steps 
from  where  you  now  stand,  and  I  give  it  to  him  as  a  slight 
token  of  esteem  and  friendship.  I  hope  it  will  hv  exhibited 
and  delivered  in  the  way  I  sent  it,  on  a  plain  piece  of  oiled 
walnut,  held  on  by  six  tacks,  with  a  screw  nail  to  hang  it 
on  the  wall,  so — [drawing  by  St.  C] 

Vedder  is  still  here  and  complaining  somewhat.  He- 
has  a  great  deal  of  talent.  Coleman  I  have  visited  but 
have  not  seen  his  work.  I  like  some  of  Graham's  work  a 
great  deal, — after  this  year  he  is  going  to  live  in  Venice. 
Griswold  is  still  the  same.  All  compkiin  more  or  less,  but 
say  this  year  has  been  a  little  better  than  the  last  two  or 
three.  My  brother  Louis  who  disappeared  from  Paris  in 
June  '76  wrote  me  a  letter  a  few  days  ago  and  you  can  imag- 
ine my  joy.  I  had  almost  given  him  up.  Simmons,  in  whose 
studio  I  am,  has  left  Rome  indefinitely,  married  a  young 
American  lady  and  is  now  settled  in  London.  ThiTc,  I  am 
at  the  end  of  my  news  for  you.  I  have  told  you  a  lot  al^out 
myself,  knowing  it  would  interest  you.  I  trust  you  will 
do  likewise,  but  much  as  I  would  like  to  hear  from  you, 
yet  I  want  you  to  feel  that  if  I  don't  get  news  I  won't  feel 
a  bit  neglected.  I  have  never  thought  that  a  person's  friend- 
ship could  be  measured  by  the  regularity  of  his  correspon- 

I  suppose  by  this  time  that  you  are  settled  down  in 
Newburgh  and  that  you  have  been  painting  away  hard  with- 
out any  interruption.  That-  interruption,  I  mean— is  the 
bane  of  cities.  So  as  to  work  I  have  to  lock  my  door  and 
answer  no  one.  I  hope  Mrs.  Armstrong  is  well;  also  your 
little  ones.  Please  give  her  my  kindest  regards  and  with 
best  wishes  from  Mrs.  St.  Gaudens,  believe  me  sincerely 
your  friend.  Aug.  St.  Gaudens.  If  you  desire  anything 
here  'je  suis  a  vos  ordrcs.'     Mr.  MacMillan  the  Consul 



seems  to  be  a  great  favorite.    I  have  not  seen  him  yet,  but 
to-day  Mrs.  St.  G.  goes  there." 

Saint  Gaudens  finished  the  King  monument  in  Paris, 
whither  I  went  in  the  spring  of  1878  just  in  time  to  see  him 
giving  it  the  final  touches.  I  had  been  appointed  Director 
of  American  Fine  Arts  at  the  Exposition  of  that  year,  and 
during  the  time  it  lasted  I  lived  in  the  Saint  Gaudens  apart- 
ment at  3  Rue  Herschel,  in  the  Latin  Quarter. 

His  studio  was  close  by  in  the  Rue  Notre  Dame  des 
Champs,  in  a  huge  old  dance-hall,  and  high  up  in  the  gal- 
lery there  a  couple  of  other  artists  and  I  often  painted, 
much  amused  by  the  alternate  waves  of  exultation  and 
despair  that  sw'ept  over  Saint  Gaudens  as  he  worked.  That 
summer  Augustus  started  his  brother  Louis  at  work,  and 
it  was  in  the  old  dance-hall  that  the  latter  modelled  his 
first  head.  Saint  Gaudens  made  for  me  a  bas-relief  portrait 
of  my  little  daughter  Helen,  besides  finishing  some  other 
small  pieces  of  work,  but  his  best  efforts  that  summer  were 
spent  on  the  Farragut  statue,  w^hich  kept  him  busy  for 
some  time  to  come. 

His  Farragut  working  model  was  set  up  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  w^hile  the  rest  of  us  painted  in  the  gallery,  once 
occupied,  I  suppose,  by  the  orchestra.  Thence  at  odd  times 
were  wafted  snatches  of  song  that  might  have  startled  even 
the  waltzing  Parisians  of  the  old  days;  from  one  corner 
would  resound  a  mellow  bass: 

"You  secure  the  old  man; 
I'll  bind  the  gur-r-I." 

And  the  couplet  would  be  completed  antiphonally  from 
another  remote  quarter: 

"  Once  aboard  the  lugger  she  is  mine." 


Saint  Gaudens  always  made  it  "lubber,"  and  we  could 
not  laugh  him  out  of  this  unnautical  substitution. 

One  of  our  lively  circle  was  young  Bloomer,  always 
amusing  and  very  talkative.  He  insisted  upon  singing 
whenever  he  painted — and  he  painted  steadily.  One  day 
somebody  called  out,  "I'm  all  through.  Come  on,  fellows: 
let's  go  out  to  Fontainebleau  and  hear  Bloomer  paint." 
Various  bets  were  chalked  up  as  to  whether  or  not  we  should 
find  Bloomer  performing  to  his  usual  accompaniment;  of 
course  he  was. 

I  asked  Saint  Gaudens  to  help  me  hang  the  American 
pictures  in  the  Exposition,  and  had  him  appointed  by  the 
commissioner-general.  This  work,  as  he  afterward  de- 
scribed it,  was  "something  like  a  battle."  A  large  number 
of  these  pictures  had  been  selected  in  New  York  by  a  dis- 
tinguished committee  of  American  connoisseurs.  All  these 
gentlemen,  being  amateurs  and  patrons  of  art  but  none 
of  them  actual  painters,  wanted  only  pictures  by  "leading 
artists."  So  I,  who  acted  as  a  sort  of  adviser  and  buffer 
between  the  artists  and  the  committee,  had  difficulty  in 
persuading  them  to  accept  pictures  by  some  men  who  had 
not  the  reputation  they  afterward  acquired,  but  who  even 
then  unquestionably  were  worthy  of  representing  the  United 
States  at  the  Paris  Exposition — notably  W'inslow  Homer 
and  John  La  Farge.  (The  latter's  picture,  "Paradise  Val- 
ley," received  an  honorable  mention.)  Even  at  the  end, 
there  were  still  a  number  of  the  younger  and  best  artists 
who  were  left  unrepresented. 

The  following  letter  is  interesting  as  showing  the  work 
that  was  admired  at  the  time  by  a  good  artist,  and  recom- 
mended for  the  Exposition. 



R.  Swain  Gifford  to  D.  M.  A.,  N.  Y. 

Association  Building,  N.  Y,  Feb.  19,  1878. 
"...  I  consider  these  as  good  as  anything  these 
painters  have  done.  Eastman  Johnson,  'The  Husking 
Bee,'  owner  Sarony;  Charles  Miller,  *The  Sheep-fold,' 
owner,  I  think,  Robert  Gordon;  Samuel  Colman,  'The 
Alhambra,'  in  oil,  and  his  water-color,  *TowTr  at  Florence,' 
owned  by  one  of  the  Astors.  William  Sartain  has  painted 
some  small  figure  subjects  and  some  street  scenes  in  Algiers 
that  I  think  better  than  any  other  American  painter's. 
There  is  a  man  by  the  name  of  Dewing  in  Boston  that  does 
charming  figure  subjects,  a  new  man  and  little  known,  but 
I  believe  him  to  be  a  remarkably  fine  painter.  I  am  con- 
vinced you  will  not  be  able  to  find  a  representative  pic- 
ture by  John  La  Farge  here  in  New  York.  The  large  New- 
port picture  that  he  considers  his  best  landscape,  exhibited 
at  the  Academy  about  three  years  ago,  is  owned  by  a  Bos- 
ton lady.  I  heartily  hope  the  committee  have  been  able 
to  see  Mr.  Clark  and  secure  the  'Cedars  of  New  England.'" 

Some  pictures  were  selected  by  Saint  Gaudens  and 
myself  in  Paris,  these  mainly  being  the  w^ork  of  the  students 
there.  Thus  our  duties  and  responsibihties  were  very  mixed 
and  it  naturally  followed  that  w^e  got  the  criticism  for  all 
the  sins  of  omission,  though  in  reality  we  w^ere  responsible 
only  for  those  pictures  accepted  in  Paris  and  for  the  hang- 
ing.   The  third  man  on  our  committee  was  Mr. ,  always 

referred  to  by  the  newspapers  as  "The  Great  American 
Connoisseur,"  a  name  he  never  afterward  succeeded  in 
getting  rid  of.  He  soon  became  rather  terrified,  I  imagine, 
at  having  to  do  anything,  and  refused  to  come  to  the  meet- 
ings or  to  countenance  any  of  our  actions,  saying  that  we 



were  too  young  and  too  radical— "perfect  iconoclasts,"  as 
he  expressed  it. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  we  partly  earned  this  title, 
for  when  we  came  to  hang  the  pictures  we  placed  those  we 
considered  best  on  the  line  and  the  worst  near  the  ceiling, 
entirely  irrespective  of  the  names  or  reputations  of  the 
various  artists  concerned;  there,  Saint  Gaudens  remarked, 
the  latter  would  do  the  least  harm.  Tliis  was  unprece- 
dented. Result:  we  displeased  a  great  many  of  the  artists, 
for  some  of  the  great  were  ''skied."  Eor  example,  Bloomer, 
who  had  never  before  had  a  picture  exhibited,  sent  a  very 
nice  landscape  and  we  hung  it  on  the  hne.  This  sort  of 
thing  upset  some  people,  and  of  course  we  came  in  for  our 
share  of  criticism,  but  on  the  whole  the  exhibit  made  a 
good  impression,  and  unprejudiced  people,  especially  for- 
eigners, said  it  was  the  best  made  by  the  United  States 
up  to  that  time.  Later  on,  Russell  Sturgis  saw  our  com- 
pleted work  and  expressed  his  entire  approval.  But  for 
the  purpose  of  showing  that  even  the  ordinary  American 
criticism  was  not  all  adverse,  the  following  quotations  from 
an  editorial  in  the  New  York  Times  seem  amusing  enough 
not  to  be  out  of  place: 

"These  young  persons  have  struck  terror  to  the  heart 
of  the  American  colony  by  judging  pictures  on  the  ground 
of  artistic  merit  displayed  in  them,  regarded  by  such  lights 
as  they  possess.  Carried  away  by  their  mistaken  enthu- 
siasm for  pure  art,  they  have  rejected  pictures  of  great 
size,  which  show,  almost  as  faithfully  as  a  colored  photo- 
graph, miles  and  miles  of  our  unequalled  Western  landscape. 
They  have  failed  to  appreciate  the  genius  of  a  man  who 
samples  a  large  tract  of  country,  and  condenses  his  samples 
into  a  'Heart  of  or  'Soul  of  this  or  that  country.  They 
have  made  the  pitiable  mistake  of  supposing  the  size  of, 



and  length  of  time  occupied  in  the  painting  of,  a  picture, 
has  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  its  artistic  merit.  Pride 
of  intellect  and  vainglory  of  the  artistic  temperament  can 
go  no  further.    Their  downfall  is  certain. 

"On  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  urged  that  an  expurgated 
show  of  American  art  is  a  novel  and  refreshing  thing,  which 
cannot  fail  to  impress  well  those  Europeans  whose  good 
opinion  is  of  value.  It  may  be  said  that  the  academical 
American  painter  is  a  nuisance  at  which  the  judges  in  Eu- 
rope laugh  heartily;  and  also  that  many  absurd  pictures 
are  every  year  admitted  to  the  Salon.  But  if  things  are 
sifted  to  the  bottom,  it  will  readily  be  seen  how  hollow  all 
such  arguments  are. 

"What  was  this  committee  appointed  for?  To  select 
and  hang  a  collection  of  paintings  representative  of  the 
present  state  of  American  art.  Mark  that  word,  repre- 
sentative. How  have  they  done  it?  By  neglecting  the 
bad  and  taking  the  good.  Now,  American  art  is  mostly 
bad.  Ergo,  the  exhibition  is  not  representative  of  the  pres- 
ent state  of  American  art.  They  ought  to  be  taught  that 
America  never  puts  her  best  foot  forward,  and  does  not 
want  to  be  represented  otherwise  than  by  mediocrities. 
As  it  is,  we  may  leave  them  to  the  results  of  their  ignorance 
and  temerity.  The  American  colony  in  Paris  has  plenty 
of  time  on  its  hands,  and  will  probably  make  the  lives  of 
the  committee  a  burden  to  them." 

Saint  Gaudens  was  always  frank;  he  made  it  a  point 
of  honor  when  asked  about  any  work  of  art  to  answer  ex- 
actly as  he  thought.  One  day  we  had  been  in  the  Russian 
gallery,  where  hung  a  gaudy  and  thoroughly  bad  picture 
w^hich  we  both  agreed  in  disliking.  As  we  were  coming 
out,  some  people  whom  Saint  Gaudens  knew  slightly  but- 



tonholed  him  and  asked  him  about  that  particular  picture, 
whether  he  didn't  admire  it  immensely.  He  briefly  ad- 
mitted that  he  did,  and  escaped. 

"Saint  Gaudens,"  I  said  as  we  walked  along,  "you're 
not  living  up  to  your  principles.  That's  a  bad  picture  and 
you  know  it." 

Turning  abruptly  around,  without  a  word,  he  hurried 
after  the  people,  and  called  out: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  shouldn't  have  said  that  was 
a  good  picture:    I  know  for  a  fact  that  it's  dreadful !" 

We  had  the  naming  of  the  juror  for  the  United  States 
on  the  International  Board  of  Awards,  and  after  some  con- 
sideration it  seemed  to  us  that  no  man  could  be  better  fitted 
for  the  place  than  Frank  D.  Millet.  We  accordingly  recom- 
mended him,  and  most  acceptable  he  proved  to  the  other 
jurors  because  of  his  engaging  personality  and  varied  talents. 
The  chairman  of  the  jury  was  Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  a 
handsome  and  attractive  gentleman,  well  qualified  for  the 
difficult  position  that  he  held,  not  only  on  account  of  his 
ability  as  an  artist  but  also  through  the  wonderful  linguistic 
powers  he  possessed.  I  heard  that  at  the  meetings  he  spoke 
to  the  jurors  of  the  many  different  nations  each  in  his  own 

One  amusing  incident  connected  with  the  exhibition 
sticks  in  my  memory.  On  the  day  that  it  opened,  all  the 
officials  assembled  in  state  before  their  respective  buildings 
while  President  MacMahon,  accompanied  by  his  magnif- 
icent suite,  walked  down  the  Avenue  of  Nations,  stopping 
before  the  different  houses  in  turn  and  congratulating  the 
commissioners.  Young  Captain  Rogers,  in  charge  of  the 
United  States  marines  at  the  exposition,  was  standing  in 
a  brilliant  uniform  with  Commissioner-General  McCormick 
and  other  American  officials  in  the  space  before  our  build- 



ing.  To  Marshal  MacMahon  it  seemed  that  Captain  Rogers, 
the  only  man  in  uniform,  must  be  by  far  the  most  important 
member  of  the  group,  and  accordingly  it  was  he  whom  he 
greeted  elaborately.  Every  one  was  quite  taken  aback 
and  young  Rogers  stood  in  silent  amazement  until  the  mar- 
shal had  briefly  congratulated  him  and  passed  on,  won- 
dering to  himself,  no  doubt,  at  the  embarrassment  with 
which  the  "director"  had  received  his  speech  of  welcome. 

About  this  time  Saint  Gaudens  introduced  me  to  his 
good  friend  Bastien-Lepage,  with  a  view  to  my  studying 
with  him,  but  nothing  came  of  it  except  a  number  of  in- 
teresting conversations  with  the  famous  French  artist. 
He  once  said  to  me  that  there  was  no  more  mystery  about 
painting  a  head  than  about  painting  a  bottle  and  that  this 
was  one  trouble  with  beginners — they  never  were  willing 
to  paint  just  what  they  saw.  He  was  then  at  work  on 
"Joan  of  Arc,"  the  magnificent  picture  now  in  the  Metro- 
poHtan  Museum,  and  one  day  the  great  Gerome  dropped 
in  to  see  and  criticise  it.  He  advised  him  to  put  in  a  dis- 
tant view  behind  the  little  peasant  house  with  which  we 
now  are  all  familiar.  Bastien  listened  politely.  Then  when 
Gerome  had  gone,  Saint  Gaudens  asked  him  if  he  intended 
to  follow  the  advice.  "Not  at  all,"  he  said.  "I  know  just 
what  I  want,  and  it  may  take  me  years,  but  I'm  going  to 
get  that  and  nothing  else."  No  one,  now,  denies  that  he 

Lepage  always  was  immensely,  almost  extravagantly, 
admired  by  Saint  Gaudens.  But  then  we  must  remember 
that  it  was  one  of  the  latter's  characteristics  to  be  extremely 
generous  in  his  praise  of  any  work  that  he  considered  good, 
no  matter  by  whom  or  according  to  what  method  it  was 
executed.  Although  he  of  course  always  liked  best  the 
works  of  the  Italian  Renaissance,  he  never  bound  himself 



to  any  one  school,  liberally  praising,  I  recollect,  artists 
as  different  as  Pelousc,  the  brilliant  Fortuny,  Jules  Breton, 
and  Daubigny,  ail  of  whom  had  pictures  in  the  Exposition. 
Among  American  artists  I  think  Saint  Gaudens  most  ad- 
mired La  Farge;  at  any  rate,  he  often  spoke  of  him  as  "a 
very  big  man,"  reiterating  how  much  indebted  he  was  to 
him  for  criticisms  and  suggestions  made  while  they  were 
working  together. 

Saint  Gaudens  ranked  very  high  Paul  Dubois,  one  of 
his  student  friends  in  the  Beaux  Arts  days,  and  he  never 
lost  an  opportunity  of  seeing  and  praising  his  work.  At 
the  Exposition  Dubois  had  a  striking  monument  of  General 
Lamoriciere,  and  of  the  figure  of  "Faith"  on  this  Saint 
Gaudens  drew  a  charming  pen-and-ink  sketch  for  an  Ex- 
position article  in  Scribner's.  This  drawing  is  interesting 
as  being  perhaps  the  only  one  ever  made  by  him  for  pub- 
lication. Mercie  was  another  favorite,  Saint  Gaudens  con- 
sidering his  "David,"  in  the  '78  Exposition,  one  of  the  most 
successful  of  modern  sculptural  works. 

But  he  was  just  as  unsparing  in  his  condemnation  of 
bad  work.  Once  at  an  exhibition  in  New  York  we  together 
had  tried  to  find  a  single  passably  good  picture.  At  last 
Saint  Gaudens  burst  out  in  fury  with:  "Let's  get  out  of 
this.  These  "pictures  are  so  bad  they're  positively  in- 

It  was  Saint  Gaudens  who  introduced  me  to  his  dear 
friend  Luc-Olivier  Merson,  one  of  the  most  charming  men 
it  has  ever  been  my  fortune  to  know.  He  was  good  enough 
to  take  me  into  his  studio  as  his  first  pupil.  While  I  was 
printing  there,  Merson  was  at  work  on  his  "Flight  into 
Egypt,"  the  now  familiar  picture  of  the  X'irgin  and  Child 
a;>Ieep  in  the  desert  between  the  feet  of  the  Sphinx.  Great 
w  IS  the  indecision  as  to  whether  or  not  he  should  put  a 



moon  in  the  picture,  and  he  must  have  changed  it  a  dozen 
times  before  he  finally  decided  to  finish  it  without  the 
moon  itself  but  with  a  charming  effect  of  diffused  moon- 

Merson  did  not  use  living  models  much,  but  preferred 
to  make  miniature  wax  figures,  clothing  them  in  floating 
garments  of  vari-tinted  tissue-paper.  Little  angels  with 
paper  wings  askew,  and  scantily  clothed  bambinos,  were 
forever  littering  his  studio.  I  think  I  am  at  liberty  by  now 
to  relate  the  story  of  a  beautiful  little  picture  (or  rather, 
the  remains  of  a  beautiful  little  picture)  that  hung  in  a 
closet  off  this  studio.  Merson  told  me  how  one  afternoon 
in  Rome,  shortly  after  he  had  won  the  coveted  '*Prix  de 
Rome,"  having  been  at  work  all  day  in  his  studio  putting 
the  finishing  touches  to  this  picture,  in  walked  Carolus 
Duran.  A  friend  of  Merson's  father,  the  famous  art  critic, 
it  seems  he  imagined  he  ought  to  show  some  interest  in  the 
young  man's  work.  So  he  stopped  in  for  a  visit.  Merson 
exhibited  his  little  picture  and  awaited  the  artist's  crit- 
icism. With  deliberation  Duran  walked  over  to  the  easel, 
seized  a  large  brush,  mixed  some  colors  together,  and  before 
the  young  man  could  prevent  him  had  rapidly  smeared 
it  all  over  the  picture — long  yellow  and  green  swipes,  hori- 
zontally across.  Then  without  a  word,  he  turned  slowly 
and  walked  out,  leaving  Merson  in  doubt  whether  to  be 
amused  or  furious.  At  all  events,  he  kept  the  remains  as 
a  memento  of  the  great  artist's  first  visit,  praying  only 
that  his  humble  studio  might  not  be  again  honored. 

At  the  Exposition,  an  entire  room  was  in  some  cases  de- 
voted to  the  works  of  one  artist.  One  morning  Saint  Giu- 
dens,  Bunce,  and  I  were  in  the  Salle  de  Jules  Breton  when 
the  artist  himself  came  in.  We  were  introduced,  but  for 
some  reason  or  other  Augustus  and  I  were  called  away 



almost  immediately.  Knowing  the  limitations  of  Buncc's 
French,  I  felt,  after  a  time,  that  I  ought  to  hurry  back  and 
rescue  him.  But  on  re-entering  the  gallery  I  found  my 
anxiety  had  been  needless.  Bunce's  ingenuity  surpassed 
his  linguistic  ability.  He  had  picked  out  Breton's  picture 
of  a  peasant  girl  lying  asleep  under  the  apple-trees,  had 
folded  his  hands  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  laid  his  head  on 
them  in  imitation  of  the  girl,  half  closed  his  eyes,  and  was 
murmuring  between  sighs  "Tres,  tres  joli!"  Jules  Breton 
meantime  was  walking  around  the  room,  quite  content  not 
to  interrupt  with  mere  conversation  so  intense  a  contem- 
plation of  his  work. 

With  Saint  Gaudens  I  used  often  to  go  out  to  Frank 
Millet's  place  at  Montmartrc,  where  we  were  always  sure 
of  meeting  Maynard  or  Buncc  or  some  of  the  others  in 
our  little  Paris  circle.  A  queer  and  picturesque  place  it 
was  and  full  of  oddities,  the  accumulation  of  years  of 
travel  and  adventure.  There  were  innumerable  divans 
and  hanging  lamps,  while  quantities  of  strange  weapons 
and  musical  instruments  cluttered  the  corners.  Foremost 
I  remember,  and  by  no  means  indistinctly,  the  weird  bashi- 
bazouk  in  gorgeous  Oriental  dress  whom  Millet  stationed 
as  majordomo  at  his  front  door,  thus  succeeding  in  fright- 
ening nearly  every  one  who  came  to  the  house  for  the 
first  time.  He  had  picked  him  up  somewhere  during  his 
travels  in  the  East,  and  had  brought  him  along  with  the 
rest  of  the  collection  when  he  returned  to  Paris. 

Saint  Gaudens  was  always  in  rather  poor  health  as  a 
result  of  his  early  hardships.  Many  times  while  walking 
through  dingy  little  streets  in  the  Quarter  he  pointed  out 
the  wretched  cabarets  where  he  had  l^een  accustomed  to 
get  his  food  during  his  sojourn  in  Paris.  He  said  he  had 
never  recovered  and  never  expected  to  recover  from  the 



effects  of  the  messes  he  had  been  forced  to  eat  while  a  stu- 
dent there. 

An  especially  intimate  friend  of  Saint  Gaudens  was 
a  French  artist  named  Gamier,  a  number  of  whose  beau- 
tiful enamels  on  copper  are  preserved  in  the  Luxembourg. 
He  not  merely  designed  them,  but  like  the  enamellers  of 
old  he  also  did  the  firing,  and  a  heavenly  coloring  resulted 
from  his  thorough  workmanship.  Garnier  had  seen  service 
in  the  Franco-Prussian  War,  and  many  and  thrilling  were 
his  accounts  of  the  time  when  the  French  army  was  shut 
up  in  Paris  to  starve.  Cat  meat  was  considered  a  luxury, 
and  stalking  cats  came  to  be  his  favorite  amusement.  In 
particular  he  told  (with  vivid  French  gesticulation)  of  one 
moonlight  night  when,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  he  went 
crawling  along  the  dark  edge  of  some  deserted  houses  fring- 
ing an  open  square,  on  the  outlook  for  a  late  supper.  Sud- 
denly he  spied  a  lone  cat  scurrying  across  the  desolate  square, 
its  long  shadow  weirdly  distorted  on  the  uneven  cobble- 
stones. As  he  softly  raised  his  pistol  to  take  aim,  he  be- 
came aware  of  another  and  a  bulkier  shadow.  It  was  a 
German  intent  on  the  same  cat.  Simultaneously  each 
recognized  the  other  as  an  enemy,  and  turned  his  weapon 
upon  the  bigger  game.  After  an  exchange  of  shots  the 
German  was  silent,  and  Garnier  could  never  be  sure  just 
what  had  been  his  fate.  At  any  rate,  when  he  looked  around 
the  cat  had  fled,  and  he  went  supperless  back  to  his  bar- 

I  never  was  more  surprised  in  my  life  than  when  I  found 
that  the  French  Government  was  going  to  give  me  the 
decoration  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  for  my  services  at  the 
Exposition.  About  ten  o'clock  one  night,  after  I  had  gone 
to  bed,  while  I  was  living  with  the  Saint  Gaudenses,  a  little 
fellow  named  Ellis,  an  artist,  came  with  a  message  from  Mr. 



McCormick  saying  I  was  expected  at  one  of  the  Ministries; 
so  I  got  up  and  dressed  while  he  waited  for  me,  and  we  went 
there  together.  There  had  been  a  lot  of  wire-pulling  for 
decorations,  but  it  had  never  entered  my  head  that  I  was 
to  get  one,  so  it  was  a  complete  surprise  when  on  reaching 
the  Ministry,  where  a  number  of  others  were  waiting,  I 
found  that  I  was  to  be  decorated.  With  no  ceremony  what- 
ever we  were  all  given  our  red  ribbons,  crosses,  and  diplomas. 
Several  other  Americans  were  given  decorations  for  their 
exhibits,  among  others  Edison  for  his  phonograph.  I  learned 
afterward  that  I  owed  this  honor  to  Mr.  Waddington,  the 
minister  of  foreign  affairs,  to  whom  the  names  of  all 
those  considered  eligible  for  decorations  were  submitted 
for  approval.  He  told  me  that  when  the  list  was  sent  to 
him  my  name  was  there,  but  that  it  had  been  scratched 
off.  He  replaced  it,  and  mine  was  the  onl}-  person  con- 
nected with  the  Exposition  for  whom  he  asked  a  decoration. 

Mr.  Waddington  was  a  dehghtful  man,  an  Oxford  grad- 
uate, and  the  only  man  I  have  ever  known  who  spoke  two 
languages  so  perfectly  that  both  Frenchmen  and  Englishmen 
believed  him  a  compatriot.  He  was  afterward  Ambassador 
to  Russia  and  to  England.  His  wife  was  Mary  AIsop  King. 
As  I  have  said  in  a  previous  chapter,  my  wife  and  I  had 
known  the  Kings  very  well  in  Rome,  and  I  enjoyed  seeing 
them  again  the  year  I  was  in  Paris.  Mrs.  Charles  King 
was  a  most  lovely  old  lady  and  when  I  came  to  call  I  was 
always  pleased  that  she  welcomed  me  with  a  kiss  as  if  I 
had  been  a  son. 

It  was  at  a  dinner  given  by  the  Waddingtons  for  Gen- 
eral Grant  that  Henrietta  King  told  me  that  I  owed  the 
decoration  to  Mr.  Waddington.  This  dinner  was  the  grand- 
est affair  of  the  kind  I  ever  went  to.  There  were  seventy- 
eight  guests  seated  in  an  enormous  dining-room,  at  a  table 



about  fifteen  feet  wide,  the  whole  lighted  by  wax  candles 
in  chandeliers  and  in  candelabra  along  the  table,  alternat- 
ing with  magnificent  vases  of  flowers.  In  spite  of  the  num- 
ber of  guests,  the  dinner  was  perfectly  served.  Henrietta 
King  told  me  before  dinner  that  she  had  asked  if  I  might 
take  her  in,  but  had  been  told  that  I  was  not  nearly 
swell  enough  for  the  sister  of  madame;  so  I  sat  between 
two  Frenchmen  and  did  the  best  I  could  with  my  bad 

General  Grant  was  at  this  time  on  his  trip  around  the 
world,  admired  and  feted  wherever  he  went.  I  am  reminded 
of  a  little  incident  in  connection  with  an  entertainment, 
at  which  I  was  an  inconspicuous  guest,  given  by  the  minis- 
ter of  agriculture  in  one  of  the  great  palaces  belonging  to 
the  government.  On  this  occasion  we  were  first  enter- 
tained by  a  play  given  by  the  company  of  the  Theatre 
Frangais,  followed  by  dancing  and  a  supper.  I  was  hand- 
ing in  my  invitation  and  my  visiting  card,  and  writing  my 
name  in  a  book  in  an  anteroom,  as  we  were  requested  to 
do,  when  I  heard  a  voice  behind  me  saying  disconsolately 
in  English: 

"I've  left  my  invitation  at  home  and  I  haven't  got  any 

I  turned  and  found  that  it  was  General  Grant.  Of 
course,  as  soon  as  I  explained  that  this  was  the  ex-President 
of  the  United  States,  he  was  politely  invited  to  enter  and 
we  went  in  together,  but  at  the  head  of  the  aisle  we  were 
stopped  again  by  two  guards  and  again  I  had  to  vouch 
for  my  illustrious  companion.  Instantly,  with  many  ob- 
sequious gestures  he  was  snatched  away  from  my  side  and 
wafted  far  away  to  the  very  front  row  of  velvet  chairs, 
where  he  sat  next  to  the  Marechale  McMahon,  wife  of  the 
President  of  the  French  Republic,  flanked  on  his  other  side 



by  six  Corean  Ambassadors,  quaintly  costumed,  with  wing- 
like decorations  in  their  hair. 

When  I  saw  the  general  afterward  at  supper,  he  said 
to  me:  **  I'm  not  a  bit  grateful  to  you  for  your  help.  I  can't 
speak  a  word  of  French,  so  I  couldn't  talk  to  the  duchess 
or  understand  a  word  the  actors  said,  and  as  for  those  other 
fellows  they  couldn't  speak  anything." 

The  general  came  quite  often  to  the  Exposition,  and 
when  I  showed  him  around  he  was  friendly  and  cordial, 
partly  because  of  his  great  affection  and  admiration  for 
Mr.  Hamilton  Fish.  He  often  said  how  he  owed  more  to 
his  advice  and  sympathy  when  he  was  his  secretary  of 
state  than  to  every  one  else  in  the  cabinet  put  together. 
Grant  was  said  to  be  a  reticent,  sulky  sort  of  man,  but  I 
found  him,  on  the  contrary,  talkative  and  kind. 

Merson,  with  whom  I  was  studying,  was  awfully  pleased 
at  my  getting  the  decoration.  I  remember  his  exclamation 
of  delight,  **VoiIa  le  pic  de  rouge!"  when  I  first  went  to 
his  studio  wearing  the  ribbon  in  my  buttonhole.  I  got 
an  amusing  letter  about  it  from  Picknelf,  a  brother  painter 
whom  I  had  gotten  to  know  very  well  at  Pont  Aven,  when 
I  went  to  Brittany  to  paint  that  summer,  after  my  part 
of  the  Exposition  was  in  order  and  I  could  get  away  from 
Paris  for  a  while.  He  and  a  lot  of  other  good  fellows  were 
staying  at  the  Hotel  des  V^oyageurs,  a  picturesque  old  place 
where  the  dining-room  walls  are  covered  with  the  sketches 
of  any  number  of  grateful  painters  who  had  sojourned  there. 
I  believe  it  has  since  been  overrun  by  tourists,  and  I  fear 
the  redoubtable  Julia  is  no  longer  the  hostess.  I  remember 
her  taking  some  fellow  who  chanced  to  offend  her  by  the 
nape  of  the  neck,  and  sending  him  flying  through  the  open 
door  with  one  turn  of  her  powerful  wrist.  But  to  ut,  her 
artist  friends,  she  was  hospitahty  itself. 



W.  L.  Picknell  to  D.  M.  A.,  Paris 

Hotel   des   Voyageurs,    Pont   Aven,    Finisterre. 
Oct.  31,  1878. 

".  .  .  Have  pity  on  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man, 
and  if  this  paper  should  be  covered  with  blotches  know 
that  they  each  and  every  one  represent  tears,  bitter  tears, 
at  your  departure !  You  well  know,  dear  friend,  how  de- 
lighted I  am  at  your  good  fortune  and  how  sincerely  I  con- 
gratulate you.  It  will  be  a  bitter  pill  to  your  enemies,  but 
all  the  more  sweet  to  yourself  and  friends.  Your  letter 
did  indeed  have  good  news  for  me,  for  I  had  begun  to  feel 
blue  at  the  prospect  of  ye  frame  bills,  and  the  expenses 
my  two  large  pictures  were  drawing  me  into.  My  picture 
of  the  'White  Road'  is  at  Goupil's.  They  wrote  me  a 
flattering  letter  off'ering  to  take  my  pictures  on  sale,  but 
I  must  not  lose  a  moment  from  my  Salon  at  present.  The 
Garden  came  out  very  well  and  I  have  sent  it  to  the  Dud- 
ley and  put  £500  on  it.    Hope  I  may  sell. 

There  has  been  a  glorious  addition  to  our  little  colony. 
An  English  General,  wife  and  two  daughters,  21  and  23 — 
figures  representing  daughters — charming,  beautiful  and 
talented.  You,  knowing  the  old  chick,  can  imagine  the 
feelings  of  his  innermost  heart.  The  Baron  still  haunts 
his  old  haunts  and  blesses  us  his  children  with  good  advice. 

Now  when  you  read  the  following  awe-inspiring  con- 
fession do  not  exclaim,  *What  a  fool ! '  Your  humble  servant 
has  builded  him  a  house  out  on  ye  lande,  and  yesterday  did 
begin  to  rub  charcoal  in  a  most  wonderful  manner  on  to 
ye  canvas.  Eight  feet  by  5^^,  how  is  that  for  size? 
for  cheek?  for  future  headaches?  and  sleepless  nights? 
Pelouse  told  me  to  paint  an  important  picture  this  year. 
So  thought  the  best  way  to  get  out  of  the  scrape  was  to 



make  it  important  in  size.  Walked  about  one  thousand 
miles  before  finding  subject,  wore  out  two  pairs  of  shoes, 
ten  pairs  of  good  nature !  Subject  once  found,  got  permis- 
sion to  build  on  ye  peasant's  land.  Had  said  peasant  to 
dinner,  gave  him  good  wine,  good  cigars,  and  about  ten 
p.  M.  he  went  staggering  home,  a  happy  if  not  a  wiser  man. 
Result  of  dinner,  jolly  good  friends  with  peasant.  He  Liughs 
at  my  jokes  in  French — very  appreciative  fellow.  Two 
cartloads  of  colors  sent  to  chateau  yesterday,  800  doz. 
brushes,  4  shovels,  and  small  cannon,  American  flag  ex- 
pected tomorrow,  cider  bottle  hid  in  one  corner.  All  crea- 
tion thinking  of  working  in  my  part  of  world,  the  hut  ap- 
pearing to  be  a  good  place  to  leave  pictures  in.  Shall  have 
newspapers,  etc.  and  charge  regular  London  club  prices. 

Having  exhausted  your  good  nature  by  this  tirade,  will 
shut  up  on  that  line,  *if  it  takes  all  summer.*  The  Sher- 
mans are  enjoying  their  stay  at  Blois  very  much.  I  have 
Sherman's  two  pictures  well  under  way.  I  envy  you  the 
glorious  opportunity  you  have  of  studying  the  Exposition. 
I  should  like  to  have  seen  it  again  but  could  not  afi'ord  it 
as  frames  for  my  Giant  and  Royal  Academy  loom  up  like 
a  nightmare  in  the  near  future.  Jones's  Salon  is  getting  on 
well.  Swift  is  going  to  paint  his  from  the  sketch  you  hked, 
Bretons  loading  mast  on  old  boat.  Am  frightfully  tired 
tonight,  having  been  at  work  all  day  on  big  toile. 

My  friends  all  treat  me  with  so  much  kindness,  'always 
more  than  I  deserve,'  that  I  hardly  know  how  to  thank 
them.  You  shall  be  best  man  when  I  come  to  grief!  Please 
kiss  St.  Gaudens  for  me,  and  remember  me  most  kindly 
to  Mrs.  St.  Gaudens,  and  accept  a  whole  flood  of  good  wishes 
from  your  Pont  Aven  friends,  and  a  brother's  hearty  shake 
of  the  hand  from  your  sincere  friend, 




Picknell  was  a  splendid  painter.  Robert  Gordon  bought 
a  beautiful  picture  of  his,  a  scene  on  the  Concarneau  road, 
and  Picknell  wrote  me  afterward  a  little  apologetically 
that  he  was  going  to  paint  another  of  the  same  place — this 
picture  is  the  ''Route  de  Concarneau"  now  in  the  Corcoran 
Gallery  in  Washington — and  explained  that  the  figures 
would  make  the  two  canvases  entirely  unlike. 

While  I  was  at  Pont  Aven,  I  went  with  Picknell  and 
Sherman  to  Quimper  to  stay  with  Mr.  Gourland,  a  fine  old 
Enghsh  gentleman  who  had  a  wonderful  place  there  with 
everything  in  it  that  heart  could  desire — a  studio  for  times 
when  he  felt  like  painting,  a  stable  full  of  good  horses  and 
fine  hunting  dogs  in  his  kennels,  seventeen  hundred  bottles 
of  rare  wine  in  his  cellars,  and  his  house  crammed  with 
beautiful  and  interesting  bibelots.  While  we  were  there 
a  peasant  brought  him  some  bronze  hatchets  that  he  had 
dug  up  among  the  Druid  remains  which  are  strewn  about 
that  country,  and  as  Mr.  Gourland  had  a  lot  of  that  sort 
of  thing  already,  he  bought  a  couple  for  a  franc  and  a  half 
and  gave  them  to  me. 

Vedder  had  a  charming  picture  in  the  Exposition,  the 
"Young  Marsyas"  playing  on  his  pipes  to  a  group  of  at- 
tentive rabbits.  In  the  following  letter  he  alludes  to  a 
strange  experience  he  had  with  UArt.  They  asked  him 
for  a  photograph  of  the  picture  to  put  in  the  magazine,  and 
he  had  one  taken  for  the  purpose  which  they  published, 
but  abused  it  frightfully,  adding  that  if  the  picture  had 
any  merit  it  was  owing  to  the  engraver !  No  wonder  Ved- 
der thought  it  a  pretty  cheeky  performance. 

Elibu  Vedder  to  D.  M.  A.,  Paris 

Villa  Ansidei,  Perugia.     July  23,  1878. 
"...    I  am  at  last  back  in  Perugia  and  glad  to  be  here 
after  my  giro.     I  must  say  that  each  time  that  I  get  into 



the  cars  I  vow  that  it  will  be  the  last  time  except  under 
dire  necessity.  The  small  streets  of  Venice  gave  me  an 
entirely  new  conception  of  heat.  Here  in  Perugia  one  dcs- 
sicates  gradually  in  a  fine  dry  heat  at  least,  but  in  Venice 
one  boils. 

Saw  Duveneck  in  Venice,  who  had  painted  a  good 
portrait  of  Bronson,  wonderfully  touched  in  the  lights, 
but  sinking  into  bitumen,  not  color,  in  the  shadows — in 
fact  not  really  colorist's  work.  Saw  Chase  also;  he  had 
painted  a  splendid  portrait  of  Duveneck,  or  picture  rather, 
the  head  beautifully  painted.  Nice  fellows  both.  Saw 
Bunce,  who  has  become  very  frank  in  his  criticisms — told 
Bunny  to  his  face  that  his  painting  made  him  'sick.'  Du- 
bois looks  well  but  I  could  not  get  to  see  his  work.  Graham 
is  doing  good  things  as  usual.  In  Florence  stopped  with 
Launt  Thompson.  Had  good  times  but  hot.  Saw  the 
youthful  Louis  Lang,  hair  blacker  than  ever  and  he  younger. 

At  home  found  family  all  well.  Griswold  had  come  up 
from  Rome  a  few  days  before,  very  weak  from  an  attack 
of  fever,  sends  regards.  Yesterday  I  sent  an  answer  to 
Mons.  A.  Ballou  of  L'Art.  Carrie,  or  in  other  words  Mrs. 
v.,  sends  best  regards.  Give  my  best  love  to  St.  Gaudens 
and  wife  and  of  course  to  yourself  I  send  all  that  is  'new 
and  gymnastic* 

As  ever  your  very  much  obliged  friend, 

Elihu  Vedder." 

The  end  of  the  Exposition  was  a  celebration  signal  for 
all  of  us.  Especially  fondly  do  I  think  of  the  jolly  time  we 
had  at  a  little  supper  I  gave  at  famous  old  Foyot's  to  mark 
the  event.  Besides  Saint  Gaudens,  at  the  long  table  sat 
McKim,  Stanford  White,  Russell  Sturgis,  Fred  Crownin- 
shield,  Alfred  Greenough,  Frank  Millet,  and  Frank  Hascl- 
tine.     Of  all   those  brilliant   souls   only   Crowninshield   is 



still  alive  to-day,  and  the  deaths  of  two  of  them  were  too 
tragic  for  words. 

Soon  after  the  Exposition  closed,  Saint  Gaudens  and 
Gamier  set  off  together  on  a  trip  to  Italy,  on  which  it  has 
always  been  a  regret  to  me  that  I  was  unable  to  go.  While 
on  the  trip  Saint  Gaudens  made  a  small  sketch  of  a  street 
scene  in  some  Itahan  town  which  showed  beautiful  tones 
of  color  and  was  remarkable  for  the  reason  that  he  almost 
never  made  sketches  from  nature.  But  though  I  did  not 
see  Saint  Gaudens  I  heard  from  him,  for  he  always  kept 
up  a  hvely  correspondence — that  it  was  really  lively  the 
following  letter,  written  soon  after  his  return  to  Paris,  proves 

Augustus  Saint  Gaudens  to  D.  M.  A.,  New  York 

49  Rue  N.  D.  des  C.     Sept.  24,  '79- 

"Dear  Armstrong — I'm  going  to  surprise  you  by  an- 
swering so  soon,  but  the  only  way  I  can  keep  my  conscience 
clear  in  regard  to  letter-writing  now  is  to  answer  imme- 
diately. When  last  I  wrote  you  I  had  two  years'  corre- 
spondence to  clear  up.  I  did  so  and  don't  mean  to  do  it 
again — so  here  goes 

Farragut  is  finished,  or  nearly  so — at  least  it  will  be 
cast  on  Saturday — and  then  the  enlarging  will  take  but 
a  short  time.  The  weather  is  simply  'gorgeous'  for  the 
last  20  days,  and  it  is  a  relief  after  the  wetting  we  have 
had.  Mrs.  St.  G.  comes  home  to-night.  Old  Fossil  D. 
must  be  in  a  showcase  in  some  provincial  museum  where 
he  belongs,  for  I  never  see  him;  that  other  friend  of  ours 
is  such  a  'scallywag'  that  whatever  he  has  said  has,  like 
Keats,  (poor  Palmer's  quotation)  been  as  if  written  in  water. 
On  the  contrary,  I  have  heard  more  good  of  you  from  the 
artists,  now  that  the  fight  is  over,  than  I  heard  harm  while 
the  row  was  on — truly ! 



I'm  sorry  you  don't  feel  more  encouraged  with  your 
work,  but  I  guess  it's  a  good  sign.  I'm  completely  and 
thoroughly  befuddled  and  disgusted  with  Farragut;  there- 
fore it  must  be  very  good — eh?  Hope  you  saw  White. 
He  is  one  of  the  'Biggest  Bricks'  I  ever  met.  (SLang  enough 
in  this  letter:  it  must  recall  the  famous  exhibition  letter 
I  wrote  Cook  or  Gilder.)  Saw  a  drawing  of  La  Farge's  in 
Harper's,  Christ  and  Nicodemus,  that  I  think  is  simply 
'big.'  If  Miss  Homer  goes  over  soon  I'll  send  that  knife, 
if  not  I'll  bring  it  in  April. 

Garnier  has  made  a  lovely  enamel  for  you  of  your 
daughter,  and  it's  hanging  up  in  my  studio  waiting  for 
somebody  to  bring  it  over  to  you — if  you  let  me  know  of 
someone  I'll  send  it.  When  it  goes  he  will  write  you  a  note. 
I  think  C.  E.  ought  to  go  in  a  Botanical  showcase  in  the 
same  museum  with  D.     There  now  it's  dark  and  I  must 

^'  Your  friend,         a         r      r-  »» 

Aug.  bx.  Gaudens. 

Always  the  best  of  good  friends.  Saint  Gaudens  and  I 
yet  naturally  saw  less  of  each  other  during  the  following 
busy  years  in  America  than  in  the  stirring  Paris  times. 
He  and  McKim  and  Stanford  White  several  times  came 
up  together  to  Danskammer,  my  pkace  on  the  Hudson, 
when  we  invariably  talked  over  the  Exposition  and  as  in- 
variably decided  that  in  a  similar  case  we  would  do  exactly 
as  before — if  given  the  chance  ! 

In  the  spring  of  '92  iMcKim  had  for  some  time  been 
slaving  at  the  designs  for  his  buildings  at  the  World's  Fair, 
and  so  when  the  work  was  well  under  way,  collecting  a 
number  of  his  friends,  he  took  us  out  to  Chicago  in  a  special 
car— Saint  Gaudens,  Millet,  Maynard,  La  Fargc,  Richard 
M.  Hunt,  George  B.  Post.  William  LafTan  the  editor  of 
the  Sun,  and  Mrs.  Millet,  Mrs.  Lafifan  and  Miss  Lockwood. 



Numerous  artists  had  been  employed  on  the  different  build- 
ings, my  share  of  the  work  consisting  in  decorating  the  ex- 
terior of  Machinery  Hall,  which  I  frescoed  in  the  Renais- 
sance style.  We  were  wined  and  dined  by  the  Chicagoans 
and  had  an  excellent  sight  of  the  skeleton  of  the  Exposi- 
tion, which  opened  in  all  its  glory  some  months  later. 

Saint  Gaudens  was  always  making  up  little  suppers, 
and  on  these  occasions  his  manner  was  as  warm  and  his 
quiet  humor  as  charming  as  ever  it  was  the  first  time  I  met 
him  at  the  old  Falcone.  Above  all,  I  delight  in  the  remem- 
brance of  the  bachelor  dinner  that  a  number  of  us  gave 
Stanford  White  on  the  eve  of  his  marriage.  A  lot  of  things 
happened  before  that  evening  ended  becomingly  with  a 
Spanish  dance  by  Hopkinson  Smith  and  Loyall  Farragut, 
neither  of  whom  could  be  persuaded  to  stop  until  they  had 
entangled  themselves  and  every  one  else  in  long  wreaths 
of  smilax.  Great  were  the  preparations  for  this  dinner, 
and  Saint  Gaudens  got  a  great  deal  of  fun  out  of  designing 
the  menu,  on  which  caricatures  of  White  were  interspersed 
with  the  more  important  items  of  the  evening.  Here  was 
sketched  White  about  to  launch  forth  into  one  of  the  after- 
dinner  speeches  that  he  loathed;  here  we  saw  him  pulling 
at  his  eternal  moustache;  and  here  appeared  nothing  but 
the  moustache — but  we  recognized  the  likenesses  as  readily 
as  we  should  if  in  these  days  we  saw  but  a  double  row  of 
teeth  and  a  pair  of  spectacles  on  the  cartoon  page  of  a  New 
York  newspaper. 

The  most  remarkable  and  original  of  all  Saint  Gaudens's 
works  seems  to  me  to  be  the  Adams  monument  in  Wash- 
ington. When  I  went  for  the  first  time  to  look  for  it  in 
the  Rock  Creek  Cemetery,  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to  have 
it  shown  to  me  but  to  find  it  for  myself.  It  was  an  after- 
noon in  March,  a  grayish,  sad  day.    Snow  spotted  the  ground 



here  and  there,  trying  to  obliterate  the  first  signs  of  spring. 
I  was  alone,  and  the  only  sound  was  a  slight  rustling  or 
sighing  in  the  pine-trees  above  the  tomb.  I  sat  for  a  long 
time  on  the  curved  bench  facing  the  figure,  and  I  will  not 
attempt  to  describe  the  supernatural  effect  it  had  upon 
me.  The  impressiveness,  the  solemnity  of  this  thing,  which 
seemed  actually  alive,  I  can  never  forget. 

And  here  is  a  part  of  a  letter  I  got  from  Saint  Gaudens 
in  1886.  It  will  serve  to  bring  to  a  close  these  disjointed 
recollections  of  my  friend.  It  brings  back  even  now  to 
me  the  "thirst  for  it"  that  he  speaks  of — the  wish  (almost) 
that  we  had  gone  over  again  in  '89: 

Augustus  Saint  Gaudens  to  D.  M.  A. 

New  York,  1886. 
".  .  .  Heigh,  Ho !  We  now  know  that  we  are  both 
alive.  We  might  as  well  be  in  separate  planets  as  be  in 
New  York  so  far  as  seeing  one  another  goes.  Perhaps  some 
day  you  will  go  to  Europe  and  I  will  too,  and  then  we  will 
renew  our  friendship  as  of  yore.  We  may  go  over  as  com- 
missioners to  the  '89  exhibit!  and  make  another  batch  i)f 
enemies.  Don't  you  thirst  for  it?  I  trust  that  thee  and 
thine  are  well  and  strong;  I  can  say  that  much  for  my  side. 
Ever  your  friend, 

Augustus  Saint  Gaudlns." 




"I  see,  far  southward,  this  quiet  day,  the  hills  of  Newbury  rolling  away, 
Dreamily  blending  in  autumn  mist 
Crimson,  and  gold,  and  amethyst. 
And,  where  north  and  south  the  coast  lines  run, 
The  bhnk  of  the  sea  in  breeze  and  sun." 

— Whittier. 

It  was  by  the  merest  chance  that  we  spent  one  of  the 
pleasantest  summers  that  I  remember  at  Curson's  Mills 
on  the  Merrimac  River.  We  made  no  definite  plans  that 
spring  of  1875  ^^  New  York,  but  simply  packed  our  trunks 
with  such  things  as  we  thought  we  might  need  during  the 
summer  and  started  off,  going  first  to  Newport  for  a  visit 
to  my  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Howard,  and  trusting  to  luck 
for  what  was  to  come  after. 

We  stayed  for  a  while  in  Mrs.  Howard's  cottage  on 
the  chfTs,  and  managed  to  pick  up  there  a  gray  kitten  that 
henceforth  accompanied  us  on  our  voyages.  Besides  the 
kitten,  we  had  the  three  children,  Margaret,  Helen,  and 
Maitland,  and  their  nurse,  Annie  Martin.  From  Newport 
we  made  for  Gloucester,  but  somehow  we  did  not  fancy 
it  particularly — it  smelt  so  fishy — so  with  all  our  impedi- 
menta we  took  the  train  for  Newburyport.  We  did  not 
know  a  soul  in  Newburyport,  and  the  hotel  was  poor,  but 
we  discovered  a  nice  hbrary  founded  by  George  Peabody, 
and  a  nice  lady  librarian  to  whom  we  appealed  for  advice 
— did  she  know  any  pleasant  place  in  the  neighborhood 
where  we  could  spend  the  summer?    She  enthusiastically 



recommended  Curson's  Mills,  four  miles  out  in  the  country; 
so  we  immediately  hired  a  trap  and  drove  out  there.  It 
seemed  attractive  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hoxie  were  willing 
to  take  us,  so  we  moved  out  the  next  day  and  spent  the 
entire  summer. 

The  old  tide-water  mill  belonging  to  the  Cursons,  a 
quaint  old  building,  stands  at  the  mouth  of  the  Artichoke 
River  where  it  runs  into  the  Merrimac.  The  httlc  Arti- 
choke meanders  along  through  a  varied  expanse  of  pretty, 
English-looking  country,  amid  thick  woods  and  wide  fields, 
under  an  old  bridge  and  out  into  the  broad  waters  of  the 
Merrimac.  Near  the  mill  was  the  Cursons'  house,  next 
door  was  the  Hoxies',  and  this  was  the  whole  of  the  httle 

When  w^e  arrived  at  the  Hoxies'  with  all  our  bags  and 
baggage,  of  course  the  kitten  was  included,  but  when  Mrs. 
Hoxie  saw^  it  she  almost  backed  out  of  her  bargain,  for  it 
seems  she  had  made  a  vow  never  to  have  a  cat  in  her  house. 
However,  after  some  persuasion  she  consented  to  accept 
us,  cat  and  all.  We  brought  so  many  trunks  and  other 
luggage  that  I  dare  say  Mrs.  Hoxie  thought  that  we  should 
turn  out  to  be  fashionable  and  fussy  people,  but  she  soon 
found  that  we  were  simple  in  our  tastes  and  gave  her  no 
trouble.  There  were  no  other  boarders,  and  everything 
was  very  clean,  but  the  food  was  exceedingly  plain;  break- 
fast consisted  invariably  of  cofTee,  toast,  and  boiled  eggs, 
while  the  other  meals  were  of  a  hke  simph'city,  but  as  we 
never  asked  for  any  extras  and  took  gratefully  whatever 
was  provided  we  got  along  very  comfortably.  I  had  a  nice 
little  room  up-stairs  with  an  open  fire  in  it  which  served 
for  a  studio  and  sitting-room,  but  as  I  was  out  in  the  fields 
painting  all  day  long  we  seldom  used  it  except  in  rainy 



There  was  a  sort  of  sand-barren  near  by,  where  yellow 
sand,  beautiful  in  color,  had  drifted  into  picturesque  lines 
and  banks,  varied  by  scattered  clumps  of  scrub-oak,  with 
the  Artichoke  running  through  it  and  broadening  in  one 
corner  into  a  deep  and  shady  swimming-pool.  There  had 
been  an  ancient  Indian  encampment  at  this  spot,  and  the 
arrow-heads  and  other  Indian  remains  which  we  often  found 
there  were  always  occasions  of  great  excitement  for  the  chil- 
dren, who  played  and  dug  in  the  sand.  There  was  also 
a  lovely  pine  grove  along  the  Merrimac,  Just  above  the 
beach  where  we  all  used  to  bathe.  Near  by,  we  gathered 
a  profusion  of  delicious  blueberries,  and  in  the  autumn  the 
nutting  was  great  fun.  Never  have  I  seen  more  beautiful 
foliage  than  we  had  that  fall.  I  painted  out-of-doors  every 
day,  my  wife  usually  sitting  with  me  and  reading  aloud. 
Among  our  books  was  a  life  of  Goethe  and  some  of  Dar- 
win's works.  The  Hoxies  had  an  excellent  apple-orchard 
with  quantities  of  particularly  fine  Porter  apples,  a  conical 
yellow  summer  apple,  most  delicious.  One  of  the  children 
says  she  remembers  creeping  under  the  orchard  fence  and 
eating  five  of  these  enormous  apples  one  right  after  the 
other,  and  creeping  back  feeling  rather  heavy — she  was 
only  five!  When  we  moved  back  to  Danskammer  in  1877 
I  planted  two  Porter  apple-trees  that  grew  and  flourished 
for  many  years  and  bore  large  crops,  but  they  never  seemed 
to  me  to  be  quite  equal  in  size,  lusciousness,  and  beauty 
to  the  Hoxie  fruit.  They  had  a  nice  poultry-yard  of  parti- 
colored fowls  of  no  particular  breed,  but  picturesque,  and 
I  liked  to  paint  them.  For  many  years  there  was  a  sketch 
of  some  of  these  cocks  and  hens  tacked  up  in  Maitland's 
little  room  at  Danskammer  where  we  used  to  keep  a  list 
of  the  eggs  gathered  from  our  own  fowls. 

Newburyport  is  an  old  town  and  there  are  some  ancient 



houses  in  the  neighborhood.  Happening  to  hear  of  one 
not  far  away  where  they  had  some  fine  old  furniture,  and 
being  always  interested  in  such  things,  I  made  an  excuse 
to  go  over  there  and  got  the  owner  to  let  me  see  it.  She 
showed  me  all  over  it  very  politely,  and  I  longed  to  buy 
some  of  the  lovely  old  things  she  had,  but  there  did  not 
seem  to  be  any  dehcate  way  of  approaching  the  subject 
and  I  had  almost  made  up  my  mind  that  it  couldn't  be 
done  and  was  coming  away  without  suggesting  anything 
so  vulgar  as  a  purchase,  when  she  remarked  coyly: 

"Folks  most  usually  buy  something  when  they  come 
here,  just  as  a  sort  of  souvenir." 

I  was  only  too  dehghted,  and  immediately  acquired  a 
Hepplewhite  sideboard,  a  graceful  and  charming  piece, 
some  pretty  little  Lowestoft  cups  and  saucers  spripped 
with  roses,  and  several  other  nice  things.  I  only  paid  thir- 
teen dollars  for  the  sideboard,  which  we  have  used  in  our 
dining-room  ever  since". 

There  was  a  boom  in  land  that  year  at  Newburyport, 
for  silver  had  been  found  there  in  considerable  quantities 
and  there  was  great  excitement;  mines  were  started  all 
over;  speculators  and  prospectors  thronged  the  place; 
shafts  were  dug  in  the  most  unhkcly  places  and  farms  were 
sold  for  marvellous  prices.  But  I  think  it  all  came  to  noth- 
ing and  a  good  deal  of  money  was  lost,  for  ahhough  siber 
could  be  found  almost  anywhere  it  was  not  in  sufiicicnt 
quantities  to  pay. 

Both  of  the  Hoxies  had  been  at  Brook  Farm,  in  fact 
they  had  first  met  there  and  been  married  in  consequence, 
and  they  knew  all  the  celebrated  members  of  that  tran- 
scendental adventure,  Hawthorne  and  all  the  others,  and 
many  of  these  worthies  visited  them  from  time  to  time. 
As  a  result  Mr.  Hoxie  was  extremely  interesting,  besides 



being  such  a  really  fine  man  that  he  inspired  respect.  I 
became  much  attached  to  him.  He  had  been  a  carpenter 
originally,  but  he  was  well  educated  and  agreeable,  one 
of  the  school  trustees  of  Newburyport  and  a  fine-looking, 
gray-haired  old  gentleman  of  very  courteous  manners. 
We  became  great  cronies  and  in  the  end  real  friends. 

Mrs.  Hoxie  was  a  Miss  Curson,  of  an  old  and  respect- 
able family,  and  her  sister  Mrs.  Marquand  lived  in  the  old 
Curson  house  near  by,  a  rather  nice  country  house.  Mrs. 
Hoxie  was  an  educated  woman  and  well-read.  But  she 
was  an  independent  person  and  did  most  of  her  own  work, 
dressed  in  the  plainest  and  ughest  of  clothing.  She  habitu- 
ally wore  a  short  gown  of  brownish  calico,  tied  around  the 
waist  with  a  white  string;  she  had  a  ** hermit  tooth"  and 
was  very  plain  in  every  way,  but  she  was  a  good  and  inter- 
esting talker  and  would  stop  at  any  time  in  the  midst  of 
her  housework,  with  broom  and  dust-pan  in  hand,  to  dis- 
cuss philosophy,  education,  "Shakespeare  and  the  musical 
glasses,"  or  any  public  question  of  the  day.  Her  views 
in  general  were  most  advanced  and  she  professed  extreme 
democratic  principles;  she  hated  cats  and  was  a  prohi- 
bitionist of  the  deepest  dye — anything  to  drink  was  an- 
athema to  her — and  in  these  days  I  suppose  she  would  have 
been  a  suff'ragist,  but  at  that  time  this  was  not  a  subject  of 
discussion.  She  and  her  husband  expressed  like  views  as  to 
democracy,  but  in  reality  I  think  she  was  rather  ashamed 
of  his  humble  origin  although  she  never  admitted  it;  but  he 
had  all  the  ear-marks  of  an  aristocrat  while  she,  in  appear- 
ance at  least,  was  much  the  reverse. 

William  Hunt,  the  celebrated  painter,  spent  most  of 
that  summer  in  the  neighborhood,  and  so  did  Saulisbury 
Tuckerman,  Robertson,  and  J.  Appleton  Brown,  a  delight- 
ful man  who  was  an  inveterate  painter  of  apple-trees.    Hunt, 



who  had  been  a  favorite  pupil  of  Couture,  was  an  enthu- 
siastic painter  and  a  charming  companion.  He  had  a  large 
class  of  ladies  who  came  out  from  Boston  at  intervals  and 
painted  from  nature.  He  had  a  painting  van,  drawn  by 
a  pair  of  horses,  which  was  arranged  with  movable  sides 
and  curtains  so  that  he  could  get  the  hght  in  any  way  he 
wished,  and  fitted  up  with  all  the  canvases,  paints,  and  other 
appliances  that  he  needed.  In  this  he  travelled  ail  about 
the  country,  stopping  wherever  he  found  a  paintable  spot. 

Celia  Thaxter  was  a  friend  of  the  Hoxies  and  used  to 
visit  them,  and  Susan  Hale  stayed  most  of  the  summer  at 
Mrs.  Marquand's.  She  was  a  sister  of  Edward  Everett 
Hale  and  of  Lucretia  Hale,  the  author  of  the  "Peterkin 
Papers."  Besides  being  a  most  agreeable  woman  and  a  de- 
lightful companion,  she  was  a  good  water-color  painter 
and  gave  my  little  girl  Margaret  her  first  painting  lessons. 
As  the  Marquands  had  a  fine  old  barn  with  a  swing  in  it, 
our  children  were  over  there  all  the  time  playing  with  all 
the  little  Marquands,  the  youngest  of  whom,  Greta,  after- 
ward married  a  nephew  of  Susan  Hale.  Miss  Hale  was 
very  fond  of  swimming,  and  every  morning  was  to  be  seen 
stalking  through  the  pine  grove  on  her  way  to  the  shore; 
dressed  in  a  bathing  suit  with  her  black  hair  streaming 
down  her  back,  she  looked  a  good  deal  like  an  Indian. 

I  often  rowed  down  the  river  to  Newburyport,  in  a  pretty 
little  light  skiff  I  bought  that  summer,  and  made  studies 
of  the  huge  ships  which  were  being  built  in  the  shipyards 
there.  These  were  the  yards  which  were  so  famous  in  the 
War  of  i8 1 2,  when  American  privateers  were  fitted  out  there. 
I  made  many  studies  of  the  great  ships  propped  up  on  the 
stocks  before  they  were  launched,  intending  to  make  pic- 
tures of  them,  but  I  never  did  ah  hough  they  were  fine  sub- 
jects, looking  enormous  and  quite  splendid  towering  above 



one.  They  could  be  launched  here  and,  while  they  were 
still  light,  could  pass  over  the  bar  at  the  mouth  of  the  har- 
bor on  their  way  to  India  or  some  other  far-off  port,  but 
they  never  could  return  to  their  home  again. 

Altogether  this  was  one  of  the  pleasantest  summers  I 
ever  spent,  although  it  was  the  most  simple  life  possible, 
entirely  devoid  of  luxury.  We  all  made  the  Hoxies  a  little 
visit  in  1876.  It  was  late  in  the  autumn  and  there  had 
been  an  early  snow  while  the  trees  still  wore  their  autumn 
tints  and  the  effects  were  wonderful.  I  kept  up  a  corre- 
spondence with  Mr.  Hoxie  for  many  years,  but  he  has  long 
been  dead. 

John  A.  Hoxie  to  D.  M.  A. 

Warwick,  Mass.     March,  1886. 

"...  I  made  a  visit  last  summer  to  the  old  home  in 
Newburyport.  As  I  stood  upon  the  old  bridge  one  evening 
you  and  Mrs.  Armstrong  were  very  forcibly  brought  to 
my  mind  again.  It  was  Just  such  an  evening  as  when  we 
watched  the  newly  risen  moon  appearing  and  disappearing 
behind  the  strata  of  clouds  and  throwing  her  bright  reflec- 
tions in  the  peaceful  waters  of  the  upper  Artichoke.  Your 
absence  made  me  feel  quite  lonely.  I  went  to  Newbury- 
port with  my  own  horse,  taking  my  granddaughter  with 
me,  and  we  had  a  very  pleasant  journey.  The  old  place 
has  been  altered  a  good  deal,  that  is,  the  house  and  barn. 
They  have  quite  an  elegant  barn,  and  keep  several  nice 
horses  for  riding  and  driving,  but  they  can't  spoil  the  beau- 
tiful views  of  woods  and  waters. 

I  have  just  returned  from  attending  the  funeral  of  an 
old  neighbor,  a  man  of  eighty-five,  who  was  born  and 
always  lived  in  this  town.  Another  old  gentleman,  well 
along  in  the  nineties,  made  an  eloquent  prayer.  I  never 
could  be  contented  to  spend  so  many  years  in  such  a  town 



as  this,  and  yet  it  is  a  healthy  town  with  many  inteHigent 
inhabitants;  but  it  is  too  rough  and  too  much  to  one  side 
of  the  attractive  places  of  business  and  civilization  and 
intelligence  for  me  to  spend  a  whole  life  in. 

I  have  not  been  able  to  do  as  much  work  this  winter 
as  I  did  a  year  ago.  I  fear  that  old  age  is  having  an  effect 
upon  me.  I  tire  when  I  take  hold  of  any  real  work,  and  I 
am  becoming  forgetful.  I  can't  keep  track  of  my  tools, 
and  often  the  plans  that  I  have  formed  for  the  next  day 
vanish  with  the  night.  I  had  a  fearful  fright  in  the  woods 
one  day.  I  was  sawing  up  a  tree  that  had  been  turned  over 
by  the  roots,  and  the  top  had  all  been  cut  away  but  one 
twelve  foot  log  w^hich  was  attached  to  the  root.  As  I  was 
sawing  that  off  and  had  got  it  nearly  cut  through — with 
a  light  or  cut  saw,  which  I  could  use  alone — the  root  began 
to  settle  into  its  place,  which  raised  the  end  of  the  log  where 
I  was  cutting.  I  thought  it  would  break  off  and  drop  in 
place,  and  turned  to  step  away  from  it,  caught  my  foot 
and  fell  on  my  hands,  and  as  I  did  so  caught  sight  of  the 
log  directly  over  my  head  about  ten  feet  above  me,  and 
thought  it  w^as  falling  upon  me,  imagine  the  sensation ! 
But  it  was  only  for  a  breath  of  time,  and  it  fell  beyond  mc, 
full  32  feet  from  where  it  originally  lay.  Old  choppers  here 
say  they  never  saw  such  an  instance  in  all  their  experience. 
But  I  did  not  think  it  would  take  so  much  space  to  relate 
this  little  affair. 

I  think  I  shall  have  to  give  up  peaches  here,  the  trees 
grow  well,  but  late  or  early  frosts  kill  the  buds  or  fruit. 
I  have  good  plums.  I  get  the  upper  hand  of  cucuHos  by 
jarring  them  ofl  on  sheets  and  killing  them.  Write  when 
you  can." 

While  we  were  at  Newburyport  I  took  a  little  trip  to 
Bar  Harbor  and  liked  it  so  much  that  we  all  went  there 



the  next  summer.  The  journey  to  Mount  Desert  was  not 
an  easy  one  in  1876,  as  you  had  to  take  a  steamer  either 
from  Rockland  or  Portland,  and  they  were  both  wretched 
old  tubs.  The  Lewiston  plied  between  Bar  Harbor  and 
Portland,  but  I  once  came  back  the  Rockland  way  in  the 
Ulysses — the  Useless,  as  she  was  commonly  called — through 
a  dense  fog  that  lasted  till  we  neared  Rockland,  when  the 
fog  lifted  just  in  time  for  us  to  see  the  countless  islands 
all  about  us.  But,  fog  or  no  fog,  the  captain,  according  to 
his  custom,  ran  his  boat  full  speed  all  the  morning  as  if 
we  were  in  open  water;  he  did  not  appear  to  regard  the 
islands  at  all,  but  steered  partly  by  the  echo  that  came 
from  them  and  partly  by  instinct;  it  was  extraordinary 
that  he  could  do  it  without  accident.  At  Rockland,  where 
we  made  the  connection  with  the  railroad,  we  were  sup- 
posed to  get  lunch  at  the  station,  but  I  found  that  the  meal 
in  the  waiting-room  consisted  entirely  of  pies  and  cakes — 
we  had  reached  what  Charles  Dudley  Warner  calls  "the 
region  of  perpetual  pie."  I  asked  the  waitress  if  I  could 
have  some  bread  and  cheese;  she  said  I  might,  but  added: 
"You  can't  eat  it  here,  you'll  have  to  eat  it  in  the  kitchen." 
So  I  retired  to  the  kitchen  with  my  vulgar  fare. 

In  those  days  Bar  Harbor  was  still  pretty  primitive, 
though  there  were  several  large  hotels,  Rodick's  being  the 
most  important,  and  a  few  cottages,  but  there  were  only 
two  real  country  places — the  Lyons'  and  the  Gouverneur 
Ogdens'.  The  Atlantic  House  was  the  next  in  importance 
to  Rodick's  and  we  rented  a  small  cottage  near  by  and 
took  our  meals  there — "mealers"  we  were  called  by  the 
natives.  Living  was  delightfully  inexpensive  then.  I  re- 
member that  lobsters  cost  three  cents  apiece  in  the  village. 
There  was  not  much  to  be  bought  in  the  village  store,  for 
the  proprietor  did  not  often  renew  his  stock,  remarking 



in  a  grumbling  tone  that  it  wasn't  any  use,  "because  as 
soon  as  he  got  anything  somebody  came  and  bought  it." 
Along  the  road  between  Rodick's  and  the  country  school 
there  were  a  few  scattered  cottages,  and  there  was  a  saw- 
mill near  the  turn  of  the  road  that  led  to  Mount  Kebo, 
but  there  were  no  important  dwellings,  only  a  farmhouse 
or  so. 

There  were  a  lot  of  lovely  young  girls  at  the  Atlantic — 
I  remember  a  cheerful  song  of  theirs,  "Oh  that  bell,  that 
Sunday  morning  bell !" — and  there  were  any  number  of 
pleasant  people  in  the  little  colony,  but  the  life  was  very 
simple,  entirely  different  from  what  it  is  now.  Gayety, 
such  as  it  was,  was  chiefly  to  be  found  at  Rodick's.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  George  Rives  stayed  there;  she  was  his  first  wife, 
Miss  Carrie  Kean,  rather  an  impulsive  sort  of  girl.  I  re- 
member we  were  all  standing  talking  one  Sunday  morning 
around  the  little  fountain  at  Rodick's.  Little  Barclay 
Rives  was  running  around  and  climbing  about,  in  such  im- 
minent danger  of  falling  into  the  water  that  at  last  his 
mother  picked  him  up  and  ducked  him  in— white  suit, 
silk  stockings  and  all — and  then  handed  him  to  his  nurse 
to  be  dried.  The  Miss  Severs  from  Boston,  whom  we  liked 
immensely,  had  a  cottage,  and  so  did  the  Minots.  Miss 
Sever  was  very  fond  of  poetry  and  shared  my  enthusiasm 
for  "The  Golden  Treasur},"  which  she  knew  from  end  to 
end;  but  oddly  enough  she  could  not  recite  a  single  p>ocm 
word  for  word;  she  had  such  a  poetical  ear  that  she  could 
not  help  putting  in  any  word  that  sounded  all  right,  and 
often  her  substitutes  were  an  improvement  on  the  original. 

We  had  a  good  deal  of  fun  getting  up  a  play,  "Poor 
Pillicoddy,"  which  finally  was  produced  with  great  excite- 
ment in  the  schoolhouse,  the  only  place  at  that  time  for 
any  performance  of  the   kind.      Frank   Haseltinc    and    I 



painted  the  scenery  and  used  up  pounds  of  our  best  oil 
colors  and  most  of  our  other  painting  materials.  I  painted 
quite  an  effective  seed  store,  Pillicoddy  being  a  seedsman. 
Miss  Mary  Beach,  Rufus  King,  Frank  Macauley,  Doctor 
Richee,  and  my  wife  were  in  the  cast,  and  it  went  off  very 
well.  "Poor  Pillicoddy"  was  a  favorite  play  at  that  time. 
The  Beeches  gave  it  at  their  house  in  Second  Avenue  in 
New  York — Henry  Satterlee,  afterward  the  bishop,  was 
one  of  the  performers — and  my  wife  took  part  in  it  another 
time  at  the  Waterburys*  place  in  Westchester. 

I  spent  most  of  my  time  at  Bar  Harbor  painting  with 
Frank  Haseltine,  who  was  a  cousin  of  the  Haseltines  in 
Rome.  We  became  great  friends — he  used  to  stay  with 
us  afterward  at  Danskammer.  One  of  our  favorite  sub- 
jects was  the  Bar,  where  the  fish-nets  for  catching  herring, 
a  great  industry  in  those  days,  were  picturesque;  and  there 
were  paintable  bits  about  the  Indian  encampment  close 
by.  Haseltine  and  I  also  amused  ourselves  painting  i 
"plaques,"  as  it  was  the  fashion  to  call  them — the  aesthetic 
revival  was  just  beginning.  We  used  to  buy  yellow  earthen- 
ware pie-dishes  in  the  village  and  decorate  them  in  oil  with 
irises  and  large  full  moons,  and  such  poetic  things,  and 
hang  them  on  the  walls  of  our  cottage,  much  to  our  satis- 
faction and  the  astonishment  of  the  natives.  Haseltine 
afterward  became  seriously  interested  in  china  painting, 
a  revived  art  in  those  days,  particularly  in  underglaze  and 

Charles  Howe  was  another  pleasant  man.  I  remember 
giving  him  some  mushrooms  which  we  had  picked,  but  he 
had  no  faith  in  our  mushroom  lore  and  suspected  them  of 
being  toadstools;  so  although  he  bravely  determined  to 
eat  them  he  first  wrote  a  farewell  note  to  his  sister,  telling 
her  he  was  doubtful  as  to  the  result  of  the  rash  meal,  but 



hoped  for  the  best.     We  knew  all  about  mushrooms,  so  his 
fears  were  groundless. 

We  stayed  at  Bar  Harbor  until  late  into  the  autumn. 
When  we  left  in  October  every  one  had  gone  except  Charles 
Howe;  he  came  down  to  see  us  off  and  the  last  we  saw  of 
him  was  his  figure  crouched  on  the  dock,  completely  cov- 
ered by  his  umbrella.     I  have  never  seen  him  since. 

This  was  the  year  of  the  Centennial,  so  from  Bar  Har- 
bor we  went  for  a  few  weeks  to  Chestnut  Hill  near  Phila- 
delphia, stopping  on  our  way  at  Curson's  Mills.  The  Cen- 
tennial Exhibition  was  a  splendid  thing  for  the  country, 
a  vast  contribution  to  its  development,  and  on  the  whole 
we  enjoyed  it,  especially  the  Japanese  exhibit;  perhaps 
we  should  have  been  more  thrilled  if  we  had  never  been 
abroad.  The  crowd  was  terrific  and  sometimes  amusing. 
The  country  people  were  forever  losing  each  other.  I  re- 
member being  asked  by  a  distracted  man  whether  I  had 
seen  anything  of  his  family. 

"First  I  lost  my  wife,"  he  cried,  "then  I  lost  my  child, 
and  now  I've  lost  my  mother-in-law — not  that  I  mind  that 
so  much !" 

It  was  amusing,  too,  to  see  the  people  gaping  at  most 
ordinary  things.  A  statue  made  out  of  butter  was  a  favor- 
ite sight — every  one  was  crazy  to  see  the  "Butter  Woman." 
I  remember  hearing  a  woman  asking  what  "chickarroo" 
was;  she  meant  "chiar'  oscuro."  And  looking  over  the 
shoulder  of  a  girl  who  was  busily  taking  notes  of  the  Rus- 
sian exhibit  of  malachite,  I  saw  she  had  written,  "Some- 
thing Green." 

A  pleasant  interlude  in  the  summer  of  1880  was  an  un- 
usual sort  of  trip  I  took,  with  a  lot  of  other  artists,  in  a  boat 
on  the  Erie  Canal.  The  expedition  was  planned  by  Mr. 
W.  J.  Arkell,  of  Canajoharie,  who  invited  the  Artists'  Fund 



Society  to  be  his  guests  from  start  to  finish — twenty  of 
us  in  all,  among  them  Wordsworth  Thompson,  Clarence 
Luce,  A,  T.  Brichcr,  Herbert  McCord,  and  Edward  Gay. 

The  Chauncey  Vibbard  took  us  as  far  as  Albany,  where 
we  spent  a  not  unprofitable  morning  looking  at  William 
Hunt's  mural  paintings  in  the  Capitol,  and  then  got  under 
way  for  Schenectady  in  a  pretty  steam-launch  that  Mr. 
Arkell  had  chartered  for  the  occasion.  From  there  we  made 
our  pleasant  way  along  the  canal  to  Lockport.  Steam- 
boats were  not  usually  allowed  in  the  canal,  as  they  washed 
the  banks,  but  Mr.  Arkell  had  a  special  dispensation.  The 
boat  was  a  delightful  lodging — comfortable  cabins  below; 
awnings  shading  the  deck,  where  a  string  band  discoursed 
sweet  music  and  signalled  our  arrivals  and  departures  from 
important  places  with  hvely  airs.  We  lunched  on  board, 
but  hotels  and  private  houses  along  the  way  provided  our 
breakfasts  and  dinners,  and  as  our  advent  had  been  heralded 
abroad  we  were  welcomed  with  enthusiastic  hospitality.  I 
must  confess  that  this  may  have  been  due  to  Mr.  Arkell, 
who  was  an  expert  advertiser,  not  disposed  to  hide  his  light 
under  a  busheL  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  kind  public  ap- 
parently saw  hovering  over  our  heads  an  aesthetic  halo 
never  perceived  by  our  friends  at  home. 

At  Schenectady  some  of  the  Union  professors  showed 
us  about  the  college;  and  at  Canajoharie  Mr.  Arkell's  father, 
an  agreeable  man,  laid  himself  out  to  entertain  us,  not  only 
by  initiating  us  into  the  mysteries  of  paper-bag  making 
in  his  up-to-date  factory,  but  treating  us  to  a  picnic  in  a 
lovely  wood,  where  we  found  a  lot  of  pretty  girls  and  all 
the  ehte  of  the  neighborhood  gathered  to  do  us  honor.  There 
were  some  picturesque  old  mills  there  which  we  enjoyed 
sketching.  The  good  people  of  Rochester  gave  us  a  big 
evening  reception,  with  dancing  at  the  town  hall,  where 



we  were  presented  to  all  the  leading  citizens— altogether 
we  came  in  for  any  number  of  pleasant  little  affairs  as  \vc 
made  our  triumphal  progress  along  the  canal. 

But  all  this  junketing  was  really  a  side  issue.  It  was 
the  delightful  scenery  of  the  Mohawk  Valley,  the  pictur- 
esque locks  set  in  a  cluster  of  old  houses  and  flanked  I)y  the 
inevitable  country  store,  often  a  picture  in  itself,  that  was 
the  chief  charm  of  our  journey.  Every  turn  of  the  blue 
canal  brought  us  something  new,  and  whenever  we  saw  a 
paintable  bit  we  would  hail  the  captain  and  he  would  tic 
up  to  the  shore.  In  a  moment,  like  mushrooms,  the  meadows 
would  be  dotted  with  the  white  tops  of  our  sketching  um- 
brellas. Indeed,  we  accumulated  so  many  sketches  that 
we  were  able  to  make  several  exhibitions  of  sorts  at  the 
towns  along  the  way.  The  canal-boats  were  a  characteris- 
tic feature  of  the  landscape,  the  old  horses  ambling  along 
the  tow-path  with  small  urchins  perched  on  their  l)road 
backs.  The  barges  were  often  nicely  furnished  and  shaded 
by  gay  colored  awnings,  and  we  passed  happy  families  sway- 
ing to  and  fro  in  their  rocking-chairs  around  their  well-spread 
dinner-tables,  or  cooking  at  their  portable  stoves  and  send- 
ing appetizing  odors  and  slender  trails  of  delicate  smoke 
across  the  water;  laughing  children  played  about  the  decks, 
and  altogether  everybody  seemed  to  be  having  a  pleasant 
time,  watching  the  green  meadows  slip  by  them  as  they 
made  their  quiet  progress  through  the  long  summer  days. 
It  was  an  ideal  life — if  you  did  not  happen  to  be  in  a  hurry. 

But  the  canal  men  were  extraordinarily  expert  in  pro- 
fanity. I  have  never  heard  anything  to  equal  it.  When- 
ever they  were  at  a  loss  for  a  word  they  filled  in  with  some- 
thing expressive.  Sketching  one  day  near  two  men  who 
were  shovelling  manure,  I  heard  one  say  to  the  other: 

"Are  you  going  by  the  cars?" 



"No,"  he  answered  quietly,  "Vm  going  by  G by 

boat,"  leaving  one  uncertain  as  to  whether  the  transporta- 
tion was  to  be  by  an  earthly  or  a  celestial  conveyance. 

Utica  did  us  honor,  entertaining  us  at  Bagg's  Hotel; 
then  we  took  in  Trenton  Falls,  and  w^ound  up  with  two 
pleasant  days  at  Niagara  before  returning  to  New  York. 
It  was  a  fine  trip,  the  artists  were  a  lot  of  good  fellows,  and 
we  enjoyed  every  minute. 

The  only  one  of  the  party  who  did  not  seem  to  have  a 
good  time  was  a  little  old  German  (I  don't  remember  his 
name),  who  had  a  studio  at  51  West  Tenth  Street.  We 
wondered  why  he  had  come.  He  never  sketched,  hardly 
ever  spoke,  and  never  appeared  to  notice  the  beautiful 
country  we  were  passing  through.  Only  once  was  he  roused 
to  enthusiasm.  Turning  to  me,  he  pointed  to  a  weather- 
vane,  a  little  wooden  hen,  on  the  roof  of  a  bare  rectangular 
barn,  and  remarked  with  a  slow  smile: 

"Zat  is  pretty." 

After  we  got  back,  each  of  us  painted  a  picture  for  Mr. 
Arkell  as  a  souvenir,  and  the  lot  made  an  interesting  little 
collection.  Mine  was  done  from  a  sketch  of  one  of  the  locks 
and  an  old  house  adjoining  it,  a  woman  with  a  baby  in  her 
arms  looking  out  of  the  door  and  a  flock  of  pigeons  on  the 
roof.  In  the  foreground  I  put  a  pair  of  waiting  horses, 
from  a  study  I  made  of  our  own  old  farm  horses,  Norman 
and  Nelly. 




"O,  the  comrades  that  gossiped  and  painted  and  sung! 
Centuria !" 

— Stedman. 

I  doubt  if  there  is  another  club  in  the  world  with  as 
many  pleasant  men  in  it  as  the  Century.  Some  of  my  hap- 
piest memories  are  connected  with  the  evenings  I  have 
spent  there  and  my  many  good  old  friends.  Thackeray's 
remark  that  the  Century  was  the  nicest  club  he  had  ever 
been  in  has  had  an  echo  in  the  hearts  of  many  less  distin- 
guished people.  The  chafing-dish  Thackeray  used  when 
he  was  our  guest  was  for  years  a  valued  relic  of  the  club, 
but  somehow  or  other  it  disappeared  a  few  years  ago,  much 
to  our  distress. 

I  was  already  a  member  of  the  Century  when  I  went 
to  Paris,  in  '78,  having  been  elected  in  1874,  nominated 
by  Robert  Gordon  and  seconded  by  Rutherfurd  Stuyvesant 
— luckily  for  me,  as  it  was  some  time  before  Saint  Gaudens 
and  I  were  forgiven  for  our  zeal  at  the  Exposition.  In  fact, 
Saint  Gaudens  didn't  get  in  when  he  was  proposed  the  fol- 
lowing year,  because  of  the  enemies  he  had  made  in  my 
company;  though,  of  course,  a  year  or  so  later  the  club  wel- 
comed him  with  open  arms. 

It  was  really  only  the  old  fogies  that  objected  to  the 
way  Saint  Gaudens  and  I  had  hung  the  pictures  at  the 
Exposition.  The  younger  men  were  perfectly  satisfied — 
for  instance,  La  Farge,  whose  beautiful  "Paradise  Valley" 



got  an  honorable  mention,  as  I  have  said,  and  was  greatly 
admired  by  the  French  painters.  It  shows  one  of  those 
long  valleys  near  the  second  beach  at  Newport  looking 
down  on  the  ocean,  a  fresh-water  pond  with  rocks  rising 
on  each  side,  and  clumps  of  gnarled  cedar-trees,  a  wide 
meadow  in  the  foreground. 

La  Farge  was  painting  in  this  same  neighborhood  when 
I  first  met  him  many  years  ago.  This  occurred  about  1865, 
while  I  was  staying  at  my  brother-in-law  John  Neilson's 
house  at  Purgatory,  and  he  was  boarding  at  Peckham's 
near  by  and  working  on  some  of  his  best  landscapes.  La 
Farge  used  to  come  over  to  John  Neilson's  a  good  deal  that 
summer  to  play  croquet.  John  was  the  best  croquet  player 
I  have  ever  seen — it  was  a  scientific  game  in  those  days — 
and  La  Farge  was  absolutely  the  worst.  We  used  to  call 
him  "Johnny  Croquet."  Old  Peckham,  a  regular  Down 
East  Yankee,  long,  thin,  with  an  inimitable  drawl  and  a 
lot  of  dry  humor,  used  to  take  La  Farge  and  John  Neilson 
out  fishing.  John,  who  liked  a  good  story,  said  that  one 
day  when  they  were  fishing  with  drop  lines  and  sport  was 
dull,  as  La  Farge's  hne  floated  close  to  Peckham — La  Farge 
all  the  time  intent  upon  some  distant  effect  of  atmosphere 
or  hght — Peckham  gave  the  line  a  tremendous  pull.  Sud- 
denly recalled  to  mundane  things,  La  Farge  pulled  in  his 
line  in  great  excitement  and  could  not  understand  why 
there  was  nothing  on  it.  John  said  that  for  years  after  La 
Farge  used  to  speak  of  that  whale  he  almost  caught. 

We  once  stayed  at  Newport  for  a  few  weeks  at  Peck- 
ham's  old  house,  soon  after  we  came  home  from  abroad. 
One  day  the  children  were  playing  by  the  gate  when  Miss 
Charlotte  Cushman,  the  great  actress,  happened  to  pass 
by  and  talked  to  them  very  sweetly  in  Itahan  until  my  wife 
came  out  and  Miss  Cushman  found  out  who  she  was.    Ap- 



parently  she  thought  I  was  to  blame  for  having  succeeded 
her  nephew  as  Consul  at  Rome,  for  she  drew  herself  up  to 
her  full  height  and  uttering  the  words  "Maitland  Arm- 
strong" in  a  terrible  "Meg  Merrilies"  voice,  she  made  a 
most  magnificent  exit  worthy  of  a  better  cue. 

Although  La  Farge  was  such  a  great  artist,  he  was  most 
inept  with  his  hands.  One  Varnishing  Day  at  the  Academy 
I  saw  him  trying  to  fasten  a  small  gilt  label  with  a  couple 
of  tacks  to  the  frame  of  a  picture.  He  hammered  away, 
bruising  his  fingers  and  getting  the  label  in  an  awful  state, 
and  at  last  gave  it  up  in  despair. 

La  Farge  was  highly  educated,  I  don't  know  where,  but 
I  think  by  private  masters,  chiefly  abroad:  he  spoke  French 
like  a  native.  He  studied  painting  with  Couture,  who  doubt- 
less influenced  La  Farge's  color;  and  color  was  his  strong 
point,  particularly  his  blues,  for  he  drew  with  difllcult} — 
though  he  produced  some  fine  drawings,  notably  those 
engraved  on  wood  by  Marsh  for  "The  Pied  Piper  of  Ham- 
elin,"  and  a  beautiful  one  called  "Silence"  for  "Enoch  Ar- 
den,"  which  I  believe  was  a  study  of  Mrs.  La  Farge. 
Marsh's  engravings  of  drawings  b}'  La  Farge,  ALiry  Hal- 
leck  Foote  and  Helena  de  Kay,  afterward  Mrs.  Gilder, 
were  exhibited  at  Paris  in  1878  and  were  highly  thought 
of;    he  was  one  of  our  best  engravers. 

La  Farge's  father  was  a  man  of  fortune,  a  Frenchman 
who  came  to  America,  I  believe,  as  an  agent  for  Louis 
Philippe.  He  owned  the  La  Farge  House  on  Broadway, 
between  Bleecker  and  Amity  Streets  where  the  Broadway 
Central  Hotel  is  now,  a  site  formerly  occupied  by  the  Winter 
Garden — I  once  saw  Booth  there  as  Shylock.  This  property 
sold  for  a  large  price  and  La  Farge  inherited  a  good  deal 
of  money;  but  he  never  could  keep  money,  and  though  he 
received  large  sums  for  his  paintings  and  stained  glass  he 



died  poor.  But  he  always  lived  well,  you  never  saw  him 
on  foot,  and  he  kept  cabs  waiting  in  front  of  his  studio  or 
the  glass  shop  for  hours  at  a  time.  Awoki,  his  valet,  a  nice 
little  fellow,  I  believe  of  good  position  in  Japan,  was  his 
devoted  servant  for  years  and  his  faithful  nurse  in  sickness. 
When  La  Farge  died,  he  seemed  to  feel  lost  without  him. 
La  Farge  told  very  amusing  stories  of  his  experiences  in 
Japan,  where  he  once  found  himself  required  by  etiquette 
to  take  a  bath  in  the  courtyard  of  a  Japanese  house,  while 
all  the  family  pohtely  stood  around  in  a  circle  patiently 
waiting  until  he  was  through,  only  hoping  that  the  water 
would  not  be  entirely  cold.  I  think  it  was  that  same  year 
that  he  went  to  Samoa,  and  called  on  the  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  family:  Mrs.  Stevenson  welcomed  him  clad 
only  in  a  *'hoIiko" — a  large  piece  of  cloth  with  a  hole  for 
the  neck  to  go  through,  and  the  lunch  consisted  solely  of 
bananas — La  Farge  was  accustomed  to  better  lunches  than 

He  was  not  only  a  great  painter  but  a  remarkable  writer. 
A  charming  article  on  Japanese  art  which  he  wrote  for  a 
book  of  Pumpelly's,  a  trip  around  the  world,  was  done 
after  the  book  was  set  up  in  type,  so  that  La  Farge  was 
restricted  to  an  exact  space,  no  more  and  no  less.  It  is 
short  but  admirable. 

The  reredos  in  old  St.  Thomas's  Church,  the  work  of 
La  Farge  and  Saint  Gaudens,  was  one  of  the  finest  things 
of  the  kind  in  the  country,  and  it  was  a  tragedy  that  it 
should  have  been  destroyed  when  the  church  was  burned, 
though  of  course  in  every  other  way  Mr.  Cram's  beautiful 
new  church  is  a  vast  improvement  on  the  old.  Saint 
Gaudens  finished  modelling  his  part  of  the  work — a  cross 
in  the  centre  with  adoring  angels  on  either  side — while  we 
were  in  Paris  together,  in  1878.     La  Farge  had,  of  course, 



the  artist's  usual  struggle  with  the  clerical  point  of  view — 
you  know  the  clergy  often  appear  to  think  that  they  receive 
a  special  knowledge  of  art  together  with  the  other  gifts  of 
ordination — the  worthy  rector  condemning  the  figure  of 
Mary  Magdalen  as  too  ascetic  and  suggesting  "a  trifle  more 
rotundity."  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  the  advice 
was  not  followed  and  the  saint  was  portrayed  with  the 
exquisite  religious  feeling  and  refmcment  always  found  in 
La  Farge's  earlier  work,  which  often  had  a  wonderful  solem- 
nity as  well. 

The  rector  of  St.  Thomas's  must  have  considered  him- 
self an  expert  on  Mary  Magdalen.  Saint  Gaudcns  told  me 
he  was  once  wandering  around  the  church,  trying  to  decide 
some  knotty  point  by  studying  his  work  from  different  an- 
gles, while  the  doctor  was  preaching  on  "coporeal  dehghts," 
with  this  saint  as  his  text.  Saint  Gaudcns  said  that  as  he 
went  from  gallery  to  gallery — the  old  church  had  any  num- 
ber of  them — the  resounding  warning  against  "coporcal 
delights"  came  to  him  again  and  again  in  sonorous  tones, 
and  that  he  left  the  edifice  with  "co-po-real  de-lights"  still 
ringing  in  his  ears. 

La  Farge's  ''Ascension"  above  the  reredos  in  the  Church 
of  the  Ascension  at  Fifth  Avenue  and  Tenth  Street  is,  to 
my  mind,  the  finest  mural  painting  in  America.  He  worked 
on  it  for  several  years;  in  fact,  Stanford  White,  who  was 
the  architect  of  the  reredos,  got  in  perfect  despair  over  it; 
it  seemed  as  if  La  Farge  would  never  get  it  done,  and  natu- 
rally Doctor  Donald,  the  rector,  wanted  to  have  the  work 
finished  and  the  scaffolding  taken  down.  As  White  said 
to  Donald  one  day: 

''This  dcLay  is  perfectly  heUish!" 

To  which  Donald  answered,  "I  am  a  clergyman,  White, 
but  you  exactly  express  my  sentiments." 



However,  the  reredos  was  finished  at  last.  Louis  Saint 
Gaudens  made  some  lovely  angels  for  it  and  I  did  the 

Louis  Saint  Gaudens  was  a  strange  fellow,  none  of  your 
Greenwich  Village  Bohemians,  but  a  true  example  of  the 
artistic  temperament,  and  with  very  nearly  as  much  genius 
as  his  famous  brother.  He  was  never  bound  by  any  con- 
vention as  such.  Saint  Gaudens  told  me  that  once  he  turned 
up  after  a  long  absence,  and  remarked: 

"Gus,  I'm  married."  Saint  Gaudens  looked  at  him  in 
astonishment,  but  before  he  could  speak,  Louis  added: 

"She's  dead."  And  that  was  all  Augustus  ever  knew 
about  it. 

When  Doctor  E.  Winchester  Donald  became  rector  of 
the  Ascension,  it  was  one  of  the  ugliest  churches  inside 
that  were  to  be  found  in  New^  York,  which  is  saying  a  good 
deal,  but  Doctor  Donald  had  a  great  love  of  beauty,  and 
he  raised  the  money  and  chose  the  artists  who  made  it  what 
it  is  to-day.  He  found  it  not  only  extremely  shabby,  with 
holes  in  the  carpet  and  stains  on  the  walls,  but  everything 
about  it  was  ugly — the  imitation  chancel  window  with  its 
quarries  of  crude  glass  set  slap  up  against  the  wall  so  that 
no  light  came  through  it,  the  dreary  wooden  "Tables  of 
the  Law"  over  the  altar,  the  square  platform  with  a  rail- 
ing round  it  that  they  called  a  pulpit,  no  stained  glass 
worthy  the  name  in  any  of  the  windows,  and  all  architec- 
tural effect  marred  by  the  clumsy  galleries  at  either  side 
of  the  nave.  As  I  said,  when  speaking  of  Bishop  Eastburn 
in  another  chapter,  Upjohn  the  architect  had  not  been  al- 
lowed to  design  a  proper  chancel  when  he  built  the  church, 
and  White  considered  for  some  time  whether  it  would  be 
possible  to  put  in  a  Gothic  chancel,  but  this  would  have 
involved  so  much  that  he  finally  decided  to  treat  the  wall 
simply  as  a  space  for  decoration. 



The  first  stained-glass  window  to  be  put  in  the  Ascension 
was  La  Farge's  "Christ  and  Nicodemus,"  one  of  the  finest 
things  he  ever  did.  Mine  next  to  it,  the  "Annunciation," 
was  almost  my  first  figure  window.  At  that  time  La  Farge 
and  Louis  Tiffany  were  still  making  interesting  experi- 
ments in  the  manufacture  of  opal  glass  and  there  wa^^  far 
more  variety  to  be  had  then  than  now,  when  the  manu- 
facture of  the  actual  glass  itself  is  reduced  to  a  fornuila. 
There  are  bits  in  both  these  windows  that  could  not  be 
found  in  any  glass  shop  to-day. 

Another  very  fine  altar-piece  of  LaFarge's  is  the  paint- 
ing in  the  Church  of  the  Incarnation  on  Madison  Avenue. 
It  is  unfortunate  that  when  the  church  was  redecorated  a 
few  years  ago  so  little  regard  was  paid  to  the  effect  on  this 
picture,  which  should  have  influenced  the  entire  color 
scheme.  The  dazzle  of  white  paint  which  has  brought  the 
church  to  so  immaculate  a  cleanliness,  but  not,  to  my  mind, 
to  godliness,  has  sucked  all  the  life  out  of  La  Farge's  color 
and  dulled  it  to  a  muddy  shadow  of  its  former  self  It  would 
have  been  quite  possible  to  redecorate  the  interior  and 
change  the  former  rather  ugly  coloring,  and  yet  keep  it  in 
harmony  with  the  picture.  How  seldom  people  seem  to 
realize  that  color  is  chiefly  beautiful  in  its  relation  to  other 
color — to  surround  La  Farge's  wonderful  coloring  with 
dead  white  was  as  presumptuous  as  to  alter  a  note  in  any 
other  great  harmony.  If  La  Farge  had  painted  his  j)icture 
for  a  white  church,  he  would  have  made  it  entirely  different. 

When  Boldini  was  in  this  country.  La  Farge  told  me 
that  he  said  to  him: 

"How  does  it  happen,  Mr.  La  Farge,  that  you  are  the 
president  of  so  many  societies — American  Artiste,  Archi- 
tectural League,  Society  of  Mural  Painters,  etc.,  etc.?" 

La  Farge  replied,  "Oh,  well,  you  see  there  arc  not 
enough  old  men  to  go  round." 



He  once  told  me  an  amusing  anecdote  of  Manet.  It 
seems  a  young  artist,  a  flagrant  imitator  of  Manet's  style, 
came  into  Manet's  studio  in  Paris  when  La  Farge  was  there, 
bringing  some  sketches  he  wanted  criticised.  Manet  said 
to  him: 

*'My  young  friend,  do  you  see  nature  in  this  way?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  young  man,  "I  do." 

"No,  you  do  not !"  said  Manet.  "/  see  nature  in  that 
way  but  nobody  else  does." 

John  La  Farge  to  Theodore  Marburg, 
The  Municipal  Art  Society  oj  Baltimore 

51  West  Tenth  Street.     May  31st,  1906. 

".  .  .  The  list  of  French  painters,  of  any  triumphant 
superiority  in  mural  painting,  is  small.  There  are  many 
good  men  whose  forte  is  not  that  of  mural  decoration,  and 
who  are  more  properly  easel  painters;  so  that  their  work 
on  walls  or  ceilings  does  not  do  them  justice,  and  is  usually 
rather  unpleasant  to  look  at,  however  meritorious  in  knowl- 
edge. We  cannot  command  at  will  the  poetic  feeling  which 
illustrates  Puvis  de  Chavannes  or  my  friend,  Mr.  Besnard. 

"You  seem  to  wish  only  French  painters,  but  if  you 
desire  to  make  cosmopohtan  representation,  are  you  not 
abandoning  some  respectable  artists  in  Belgium,  in  Ger- 
many, in  Spain,  also  in  England?  I  do  not  know  the  artists 
of  Holland  or  of  Northern  Europe,  nor  am  I  sufficiently 
acquainted  with  the  Italians  who  have,  of  late,  developed 

"But  I  should  not  wish  to  have  my  name  in  any  way 
associated  with  the  idea  of  bringing  over  foreign  artists, 
unless  their  superiority  was  so  marked  that  we  could  not 
afl'ord  to  do  without  them.  I  should  prefer  to  see  at  any 
time,   an  American,   of  moderate   capacity — provided   he 




were  properly  a  mural  painter — do  the  work  in  preference 
to  a  foreigner  of  no  greater  rank.  I  should  even  go  further, 
I  should  go  very  far  in  encouraging  American  Art.  .My 
reasons  would  be  based  on  the  experience  of  Europe.  The 
French  have  developed  their  work  by  asking  Frenchmen 
to  do  it,  and  in-so-far  as  each  nationality  has  followed  this 
rule,  they  have  developed  the  Art  of  their  country. 

**This  seems  to  me  a  fundamental  law,  and  if  there  have 
been  a  few  exceptions,  they  have  usually  occurred  at  such 
times  as  the  Civil  Wars  in  France,  when  every  form  of  Art 
suffered,  when  manufactures  were  absolutely  wiped  out, 
and  when  Rubens  was  called  in  of  necessity.  I  have  al- 
ways admired  the  action  of  Louis  XIV  of  France,  in  his 
decision  to  return  even  the  illustrious  Bernini  to  Italy,  and 
to  give  to  famous  Frenchmen  the  work  which  should  illus- 
trate his  reign. 

"I  should  even  disagree  with  regard  to  the  influence 
upon  our  development  here  of  such  noble  work  as  that  of 
Puvis.  No  one  that  I  know  is  old  enough  to  have  admired 
him  as  long  as  I  have,  so  that  I  can  speak  with  a  degree 
of  confidence  quite  as  great  as  that  of  any  Frenchman. 

"You  allow  with  your  usual  intelligent  frankness,  which 
I  fully  appreciate,  that  the  course  you  speak  of  takes  awa> 
a  commission  from  some  American  artist.  Well,  this  I 
regret.  I  should  like  to  see  more  of  Mr.  Turner's  work  in 
Baltimore,  and  the  same  for  Mr.  Blashfield.  They  will  be 
honors  to  us  all,  and  there  are  half  a  dozen  Americans  be- 
sides who  are  quite  capable  of  such  efforts. 

"I  believe  that  our  American  artists  should  have  work 
in  our  buildings  in  preference  to  the  foreigner  under  almost 
any  circumstances  and  I  believe  that  when  that  view  is 
firmly  anchored  in  the  minds  of  our  architects  and  lovers 
of  Art,  we  shall  be  launched  into  the  full  sea  of  American 


mural  painting.  We  already  see  the  advantage  of  this  in 
sculpture.  The  American  architect  does  not  bring  over 
even  the  excellent  French  sculptors  who  are  there  at  hand. 
And  the  American  architect  is,  in  so  far,  right. 

"Finally,  please  understand  that  I  appreciate  entirely 
your  point  of  view,  that  of  an  educational  influence.  But 
I  consider  my  own  view  the  better,  from  long  experience 
and,  I  believe,  an  adequate  acquaintance  with  the  art  of 
a  great  part  of  Europe  and  that  of  our  own  men." 

No  doubt  La  Farge  is  right  in  his  convictions  expressed 
in  the  letter  above  and  yet  I  have  always  regretted  that 
there  was  none  of  my  friend  Merson's  beautiful  work  to 
be  seen  in  this  country.  He  and  I  kept  in  touch  with  each 
other  for  some  time.  The  following  letter — interesting 
because  he  expresses  a  feehng  shared  by  all  decorators  that 
too  wide  a  scope  is  as  bad  as  too  small  a  one — was  written 
just  after  Doctor  Nevin  had  decided  not  to  employ  him, 
as  I  had  suggested,  to  decorate  the  new  church  in  Rome, 
and  when  I  was  hoping  to  get  him  an  order  here. 

Luc  Olivier  Merson  to  D.  M.  A.,  New  York 

119    Boulevard    St.    Michel,    Paris. 
4  Septembre,  1881. 

"Mon  cher  ami.  En  revenant  d'une  petite  excursion  au 
bord  de  la  mer,  je  trouve  votre  aimable  lettre  et  je  m'em- 
presse  de  vous  repondre.  Et  d'abord  excusez-moi  de  ne 
pas  vous  avoir  repondu  plus  tot  au  subjet  de  la  visite  que 
m'a  faite  le  Dr.  Nevin.  Je  vous  suis  tres  reconnaissant 
d'avoir  pense  a  moi,  et  je  ne  regrette  qu'une  chose,  c'est 
que  I'affaire  n'ait  pas  eu  de  suite.  Le  travail  a  ete  confie 
a  un  artiste  anglais,  que  vous  connaissez  sans  doute,  Burne 



"Et  maintenant  causons  dc  Tafialre  que  vous  mc  pro- 
posez.  J'accepte  volonticrs  cle  fairc  les  cartons  que  vous 
me  demandez  comme  essais.  ...  Je  vous  serais  tres  oblige 
de  vouloir  bicn  mc  prcciscr  davantagc  Ics  sujets.  Que 
doit  representer  I'ange;  est-cc  I'ange  dc  la  douleur,  de  la 
priere,  de  la  redemption?  Ou  bicn  cst-cc  un  ange  chantant 
ou  jouant  d'un  instrument  quclconquc?  Dc  mcme  pour  le 
groupe  dc  deux  ou  trois  figures,  que  doit-il  representer? 
Les  Arts  ou  I' Industrie,  T Etude  ou  le  Repos?  L'esperance 
ou  la  Charite,  la  Comedie  ou  la  Musiquc?  Cette  liberte 
que  vous  me  laissez  me  gene  beaucoup  plus  qu'elle  me 

"Voila  tout.  II  ne  me  reste  plus  qu'a  vous  remercier 
de  nouveau  de  votre  bon  souvenir.  Jc  cause  souvent  de 
vous  avec  M.  Hascltinc,  qui  est  a  Paris  depuis  quelque 
temps  et  qui  travaillc  dans  Tatclicr  que  vous  connaissez. 
J'espere  que  plus  heurcuscs  avec  vous  qu'  avec  Monsieur 
Nevin  nos  relations  artistiques  ne  scront  pas  interrompucs 
avant  meme  d'avoir  commence.  Pour  ma  part,  jc  ferai 
mon  possible  pour  vous  satisfairc,  ctant  tres  desireux 
d'abord  de  continuer  avec  vous  d'agreables  relations,  en- 
suite  de  travailler  pour  I'Amerique  qui  est  vraiment  le  seul 
pays  qui  encourage  les  arts  et  qui  appelle  et  cherche  a 
retenir  les  artistes  qui  chez  eux  dans  leur  propre  pays  nc 
peuvent  pas,  malgre  leur  travail  et  leur  peine,  arriver  a  sc 
fairc  unc  situation  meme  modestc. 

'Recevez,  mon  cher  ami,  mes  mcilleurs  remercicmcnts 
et  croyez  a  mes  meilleurs  sentiments  de  bonne  sj'mpathie. 
**  Votre  tout  dcvoue, 

'Llc-Olivier  Merson." 

A  very  old  friend  of  our  family — a  member  of  the  Cen- 
tury by  the  way — was  Doctor  E.  Winchester  Donald.    Wc 


had  known  him  ever  since  he  first  came  to  the  Church  of 
the  Ascension  as  Doctor  John  Cotton  Smith's  curate,  a 
very  young  man,  and  we  missed  him  when  he  left  New 
York  to  become  rector  of  Trinity  Church,  Boston.  I  do 
not  think  they  appreciated  him  there,  the  point  of  view 
was  too  local.  He  once  said  that  living  in  Boston  after 
the  rush  of  life  in  New  York  was  like  "being  drowned  in 
a  park  fountain."  I  have  already  spoken  of  his  interest 
in  art  in  connection  with  the  decoration  of  the  Church  of 
the  Ascension.  The  following  letters  show  how  intense 
and  how  sincere  was  his  love  of  beauty. 

Rev.  E.  Winchester  Donald  to  Miss  Meta  Neilson 

Mont-Saint-Michel.  Aug.  31,  1895 
**.  .  .  This  is  a  fine  place  from  which  to  see  the  summer 
die.  It  reminds  me  of  Amherst !  save  that  the  white  gleam- 
ing sand  takes  the  place  of  meadows.  I  mean  the  long 
view  is  here  the  only  one  and  you  can  see  the  sun  set  be- 
hind the  hills — low  to  be  sure,  twenty  miles  away.  The 
same  Amherst  stillness  pervades  everything  at  ten  o'clock 
at  night,  and  as  I  watched  the  moon  riding  through  white 
transparent  clouds,  and  making  the  ribbon  of  water,  which 
runs  at  low  tide  through  the  long  sand  reaches,  shine  like  a 
lazy  silver  serpent,  I  could  imagine  myself  at  Amherst,  yet 
always  recalled  by  the  long,  exciting,  sad  history  which  the 
vast  pile  of  stone  above  my  head  records.  Nothing  one 
can  read,  nothing  one  can  imagine  from  Haig's  etching, 
gives  the  sfightest  idea  of  this  marvelous  pile.  It  is  far 
more  exciting  than  anything  or  everything  I  have  seen. 
Free  of  history  and  poetry,  free  of  art  and  beauty,  it  is  the 
very  peak  of  human  achievement,  daring,  and  imagination. 
I  am  simply  insane  with  wonder  and  delight.  But  we  can 
talk  of  it  next  winter  at  233— in  the  firelight." 



Washington,  Jan.  i8,  1899. 

".  .  .  Foremost  among  the  things  I  have  seen  is  St. 
Gaudens'  figure  over  the  grave  of  Henry  Adams'  wife.  Take 
it  all  in  all,  I  know  nothing  which  is  comparable  to  it.  It 
haunts  one.  Out  of  the  human  being  has  gone  hope,  love, 
interest,  and  longing.  Not  alone  is  the  face  of  the  figure 
declarative  of  the  extinction  of  all  that  so  much  as  makes 
death  bearable — the  shoulders,  the  back,  the  arms,  tell 
the  same  story.  The  infinite  refinement  of  the  woman 
accents  her  lapse  into  nothingness.  The  power  of  it  all 
is  tremendous,  startling,  alarming.  The  cleanHness  of  the 
bronze  led  me  to  ask  the  keeper  if  there  were  no  birds. 
He  said  no  birds  ever  came  near  it. 

"I  think  I  should  not  wish  often  to  see  it.  It  so  obsesses 
one  that  he  finds  himself  asking  as  he  turns  away,  *  Is  She 
right?  Is  She  wise?'  She  has  no  secret,  that  is  clear,  but 
the  calm  inarticulate  misery  of  hopelessness  is  spread,  like 
a  dull  sheen,  over  every  feature.  And  when  one  has  re- 
covered himself,  he  finds  She  retains  his  respect,  as  certain 
biythe  figures,  meant  to  represent  hope  and  faith,  do  not. 
I  should  like  to  be  a  genius." 

Trinity   Cliurcli    in   the   City   of  Boston. 
April  29,  1 90 1. 

".  .  .  They  have  a  beautiful  chapel  at  W'ellesley.  How 
our  tastes  have  changed  since  1872  when  the  mildest  ritual- 
ism seemed  born  of  the  Evil  One  of  Rome.  I  don't  think 
it  is  a  clearer  intellectual  view  of  either  history  or  ecclesi- 
ology  which  has  wrought  it,  but  an  increased  sensitiveness 
to  form.  I  like  to  believe  that  our  early  training  in  the 
paramount  importance  of  personal  religion  will  keep  our 
love  of  ordered  beauty  from  degeneration.  At  any  rate,  I 
doubt  if  people  can  achieve  culture  and  sensitiveness  to 



form  and  still  be  content  with  or  helped  by  barrenness  in 
worship.      I  rather  dread  going  back  to  Trinity's  empty 


London,  Aug.,  1903. 

**.  .  .  France  never  seemed  so  prosperous  or  so  bright. 
The  vast  plains  stretching  from  Orleans  beyond  Chartres  were 
one  prairie  of  golden  grain.    Already  the  reapers  are  busy. 

"At  Rouen  I  started  for  the  train  early  enough  to  drive 
through  the  little  square  behind  the  Cathedral,  and  received 
the  benediction  of  that  exquisitely  beautiful  brown  apse. 
My  three  hours  in  Paris  I  spent  in  going  to  see  the  chapel 
built  in  memory  of  those  who  perished  in  the  memorable 
Charity  Bazaar  fire  four  or  five  years  ago.  It's  no  better 
than  a  gilded  paganism.  There's  not  a  holy  line  or  a  rever- 
ent curve  or  a  bit  of  solemn  decoration  in  it.  It  was  evi- 
dently designed  by  some  one  who  had  never  prayed,  never 
suffered,  and  never  allowed  his  heart  to  share  in  another's 
woe.  It  seems  to  say  as  one  enters,  'See!  how  clever  is 
man,  how  unnecessary  and  fleeting  is  God.'  And  yet  there 
was  one  tender  touch.  Behind  the  ahar  screen  the  sisters 
were  chanting  htanies.  Perhaps  a  dozen  of  them — they 
were  hidden  from  sight — made  the  appeals  on  a  low  tone, 
as  low  as  D,  I  should  say.  When  they  ceased,  a  single  voice, 
a  full  octave  higher,  took  up  the  appeal  with  a  heart-broken 
despair,  so  unwiHing  to  cease  petitioning  yet  so  unable  to 
spread  wide  the  wings  of  faith.  Those  prayers  added  a 
new  ughness  to  the  garish  surroundings  furnished  the  holy 
sisters  by  some  cafe-haunting  architect.  If  the  sisters  had 
not  been  there  I  should  have  cried  out,  'This  is  all  Tophet 
let  loose!'  and  fled." 

Homer  Martin  was  a  most  amusing  Centurian.     He 
had  a  vast  fund  of  dry  humor.     Like  all  true  Bohemians, 



his  ideas  of  domestic  life  were  eccentric,  and  sometimes  his 
home  would  not  see  him  for  weeks  at  a  time.  Meeting  him 
on  the  street  one  day,  a  friend  told  Martin  an  amusing 
story,  adding  that  Mrs.  Martin — a  fine  woman,  I  behcve, 
and  witty  as  well — had  told  it  to  him. 

"Indeed,"  said  Martin.  "Why  I  think  I  shall  have 
to  go  home  and  make  her  acquaintance." 

The  Century  Club  has  two  of  Martin's  pictures,  "Lake 
Sanford"  in  the  Adirondacks  and  "The  Honfleur  Light." 
Martin  was  a  great  painter,  a  man  of  exquisite  artistic  feel- 
ing, but  the  public  did  not  find  it  out  until  he  was  dead. 
When  the  public  woke  up,  pictures  he  had  sold  for  hundreds 
brought  thousands,  and  eventually  commanded  fabulous 
prices.  A  friend  of  his  told  me  that  Martin  had  once  of- 
fered him  any  picture  in  his  studio  for  two  hundred  dol- 
lars. Martin  said:  "Don't  you  want  to  buy  a  picture? 
I  have  about  three  hundred  I  can't  sell;  some  of  them  have 
frames,  too." 

Martin  was  a  friend  of  Whistler's  and  stayed  with  him 
in  his  luxurious  house  in  London.  Whistler  said  he  came 
down-stairs  one  morning  and  found  Martin  looking  vaguely 
about  the  room,  and  asked  him  what  he  was  looking  for. 

"A  pair  of  scissors,"  said  Martin.  "You  don't  seem 
to  have  any.  What  in  the  world  do  you  do  when  you  want 
to  trim  your  cuffs?" 

Hopkinson  Smith  was  about  the  best  all-round  man  I 
ever  knew.  He  did  many  things  and  all  of  them  well,  and 
was  withal  a  most  engaging  companion  and  a  distingulsiicd- 
looking  man,  a  true  type  of  the  progressive  American.  As 
engineer,  he  built  the  hghthousc  at  Race  Rock,  where  many 
others  had  failed.  As  painter,  he  did  good  work  in  water- 
colors  and  in  black  and  white;  every  year  he  brought  home 
from  abroad  a  great  portfolio  of  charming  drawings  that 



sold  like  hot  cakes.  Perhaps  his  best  work  as  a  writer  was 
"Colonel  Carter  of  Carters ville."  The  scene  of  this  story 
is  laid  in  the  rooms  of  the  old  Tile  Club,  of  which  he 
was  a  member,  at  58  West  Tenth  Street — now  my  own 
house — or  rather  at  58>^,  as  its  door  was  numbered,  for  the 
club  was  reached  by  a  passageway  through  the  house  in 
front.  Most  of  the  best-known  artists  and  architects  in 
New  York  belonged  to  the  Tile  Club — Charles  F.  McKim, 
Frank  Millet,  Abbey,  Stanford  White,  Dielman,  William 
Gedney  Bunce,  and  a  lot  of  others.  I  once  dined  there 
as  McKim's  guest,  and  I  little  dreamed  as  I  sat  in  that 
quaint  room  that  it  would  one  day  belong  to  me. 

When  I  bought  the  house,  in  1890,  there  were  two  build- 
ings. The  one  that  had  been  occupied  by  the  Tile  Club 
was  a  small  house  in  the  centre  of  the  block.  In  old  times 
it  had  had  a  garden  in  front,  but  the  garden  was  afterward 
obliterated  by  the  erection  of  another  house  directly  on 
the  street,  with  a  funny  little  passageway  to  the  rear  house 
running  through  its  basement.  I  bought  both  houses  and 
connected  them  by  building  another  room  between,  and 
made  some  other  improvements,  with  Tom  Nash's  valuable 
help  as  architect,  which  made  it  an  attractive  house — there 
is  certainly  no  other  house  anywhere  in  the  least  like  it. 
We  have  lived  there  ever  since.  One  thing  we  like  about 
it  is  our  studio,  built  by  Abbey,  and  occupied  by  both  him 
and  Freer.  Our  dining-room,  except  for  the  shelves  of 
china,  is  not  very  different  from  when  it  was  the  Tile  Club's  j 
meeting-place,  the  two  white-tiled  fireplaces  that  Stanford 
White  designed  being  unchanged.  In  view  of  the  recent 
irruption  of  odd-looking  houses  in  the  neighborhood,  it  is 
amusing  to  remember  that  when  I  painted  the  woodwork 
outside  white  it  was  considered  extraordinarily  conspicuous. 
I  remember  Dielman  saying  laughingly  that  we  ought  to 



n^Strl'°l  'r''"l  °""f^^^  -  P^-'-nt  a  feature 
n  tne  street.     1  have  always  been  sorrv  tfioi-  I  , 

lowed  by  the  Building  Department  ^X^.  rjlt" 

told  ^,:ite  Snrr :  e^x  '■r,t\t.t;""^r 

twenty-five  dollars,  but  I  didn't  eare        gi    ^  b   b""' 
Hopk,nson  Smith  gave  n,e  two  prettWrawing    of  the 

oldTn,        r  ^''•"■'''  ''""'^  sentimental  about  the 

old  house    havmg  used  it  as  the  scene  of  one  of  his  first      He  showed  us  "where  Chad  stood  and  where  the 
CO  onel  sat."  quae  as  if  they  had  been  real  peopi       Jus 
before   h,s   death   a    moving-pieture   eoncern '^arr'^LcI   to 
take  so-e  pictures  of  our  house  for  a  play  of  "Colonel  Or? 

Ln       U    u  J  °"S'^  ""'"g  to  Mr.  Smith's  death      I 

fancy  he  had  arranged  to  superintend  it 

On  the  occasion  of  that  first  visit  of  „,ine  to  the  Tile 
Club,  Doctor  Richard  Derby  and  my  nephew  Tom  Howard 
were  also  guests.  Hop  Smith  recounted  some  of  his  tal2 
and  we  had  a  very  ,olly  time.  He  had  the  rare  faeultv  Tf 
reciting  both  comic  and  pathetic  things  with  good  effect- 

l". ^°^"  T     f  ""''""'"S  '"  recitation,  but  his  was  the 
'•al  thing;   he  almost  made  one  weep 

LJn  'r*  f '"*'  ;'  '""■  ""Pf^''"^°"  Smith  was  at  the  Cen- 
tury Club  where  he  was  holding  forth  to  a  crowd  of  men 

TJu  ^^™^"/'™^''f'e=-  He  ended  bv-  saying  that  he 
had  been  abroad  nineteen  times  and  had  never  vet  met 
1  (jerman  gentleman. 

"It's  what  they  cat,"  he  said,  "that  makes  them  such 
Drut^es.  Why,  not  long  ago  I  was  breakfasting  in  the  Arcade 
n  Milan  and  a  German  bride  and  groom  came  in.  He  was 
I  handsome  young  officer,  and  I  knew  she  was  a  bride  be- 


cause  everything  she  had  on  was  brand-new.  And  what 
do  you  think  he  ordered  for  breakfast — a  piece  of  ham  a 
foot  long  and  two  steins  of  beer !" 

Clarence  King  was  another  many-sided  man.  He  was 
a  mining  engineer  of  distinction,  and  had  degrees  not  only 
from  Yale  but  from  Leipsic  and  many  other  universities, 
but  I  think  that  his  personal  charm  and  delightful  con- 
versation had  as  much  to  do  with  his  success  in  life  as  his 
mental  ability.  Of  all  the  arts,  the  great  art  of  conversa- 
tion is  the  most  transitory — it  leaves  only  a  vague  tradi- 
tion behind  it.  So  it  is  hard  to  do  Clarence  King  justice, 
but  I  am  sure  no  better  talker  ever  lived,  nor  any  with  a 
readier  wit.  One  day  at  the  club  some  one  spoke  of  having 
caught  a  ghmpse  of  a  strange-looking  woman  in  the  window 
of  a  house  in  Amity  Street,  as  he  flashed  by  in  the  elevated. 
He  said  she  was  a  stout  Cuban-looking  creature  dressed 
in  a  gaudy  flowered  gown,  and  then,  as  he  hesitated  for  a 
phrase  in  which  to  describe  her.  King  broke  in  with: 

"Why  not  caH  her  a  Havana  filler  in  a  Connecticut 

I  once  spoke  of  a  girl  on  the  bathing  beach  at  New  Lon- 
don, who  could  stand  on  one  heel  and  make  a  perfect  circle 
in  the  sand  with  the  other. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  King.     "A  radius  of  two  feet."  \ 

Another  first-rate  conversationalist,  one  of  my  morl 
recent  friends  at  the  Century  of  whom  I  became  exceed- 
ingly fond,  was  Charles  E.  Grinnefl,  of  Boston.  President 
of  his  class  at  Harvard,  an  accompfished  linguist,  a  traveller, 
and  an  author,  he  was  not  only  a  citizen  of  the  world  in 
its  best  sense  and  a  representative  American,  but  above 
afl  a  man  of  character  and  a  gentleman.  He  was  an  au- 
thority on  music  and  the  drama,  and  for  many  months 
never  missed  a  performance  at  the  Theatre  Fran^ais,  for, 

320  i 


as  a  Frenchman  said  to  him:  "If  you  go  there  you  will 
know  more  about  France  than  if  you  visited  every  town 
in  the  country."  Not  only  was  he  one  of  the  best  of  talkers, 
but  he  possessed  that  rare  quality  of  being  a  good  hstener 
as  well.  His  love  of  life  was  intense  up  to  the  last;  he  en- 
joyed every  moment  with  the  cheerful  outlook  of  youth 
mellowed  by  the  wisdom  of  age,  and  was  so  modest,  sweet- 
tempered,  and  simple  that  every  one  loved  him. 

Launt  Thompson,  a  brother-in-law  of  Bishop  Potter, 
was  a  sculptor  of  fine  artistic  and  technical  ability  who 
ought  to  have  gone  farther  than  he  did.  The  Century  owns 
tw'O  of  his  best  works,  the  noble  portrait  of  Edwin  Booth 
and  the  fine  bronze  eagle  with  outspread  wings  that  stands 
on  the  stairway. 

Speaking  of  Booth  recalls  a  slip  of  Richard  Harding 
Davis — one  of  those  remarks  one  afterward  regrets.  Davis 
had  just  seen  a  very  fine  death  mask  of  Lincoln,  and  when 
Booth  came  in  he  described  it  to  him  in  detail,  much  to 
the  horror  of  the  bystanders,  who  were  old  enough  to  re- 
member that  the  assassination  had  poisoned  all  Booth's 
earlier  life.  But  Booth  took  it  very  calmly  and  when  Davis 
had  left  the  room  turned  to  a  friend  and  said: 

"After  the  first  moment,  I  was  glad  he  spoke  as  he  did. 
It  shows  that  the  younger  generation  do  not  connect  my 
name  with  the  tragedy." 

Mr.  A.  Rodney  Macdonough  was  an  honored  member 
of  the  Century  and  for  many  years  its  secretary.  He  was 
the  son  of  the  celebrated  commodore,  whose  fine  portrait 
by  Gilbert  Stuart  hung  on  the  wall  of  the  dining-room  at 
the  club  until  after  Mr.  Macdonough's  death,  when  it  was 
removed  by  his  family.  In  a  logbook  kept  by  my  uncle 
Charles,  I  found  an  account  of  a  voyage  he  once  took  in 
the  old  frigate  Constitution  as  a  midshipman  when  Com- 



modore  Macdonough  was  captain.  He  mentions  that  the 
ship  ran  aground  at  Smyrna,  and  Mr.  Macdonough  told 
me  that  he  well  remembered  the  excitement  of  the  event; 
he  must  have  had  a  pretty  good  memory,  for  he  was  only 
a  httle  boy  of  four  when  he  took  that  voyage  with  his 

I  had  the  honor  of  knowing  Mr.  John  Bigelow  well. 
He  was  president  of  the  club  for  many  years,  and  up  to 
the  time  of  his  death  at  ninety-four  presided  at  the 
monthly  meetings  with  grace  and  ability.  Mr.  Bigelow 
was  an  ardent  Swedenborgian  and  used  to  present  me  every 
now  and  then  with  a  little  book  of  his  own  composition 
on  that  faith,  but  I  regret  to  say  I  never  could  read 

There  is  a  round  table  in  the  corner  of  the  dining-room 
at  the  Century  Club,  where  Nadal,  Loyall  Farragut,  Theo- 
dore Thomas,  William  Alexander,  and  others  usually  dine, 
and  here  it  is  my  good  fortune  to  sit  whenever  I  happen 
to  be  at  the  club  at  the  dinner  hour. 

Alas,  poor  Farragut  is  gone !  He  was  perhaps  the  most 
popular  man  in  the  club.  He  and  I  were  said  to  look  a 
good  deal  alike.  He  told  me  he  once  met  Walter  Crosby 
on  Madison  Avenue,  and  met  him  a  second  time  a  few  min- 
utes later.  Crosby  said:  **It  is  strange,  Mr.  Armstrong, 
that  we  should  meet  again  so  soon,"  and  Farragut  answered: 
"But  it  is  stranger  still  that  I  am  not  Mr.  Armstrong!" 

I  was  riding  with  McKim  at  Lenox  a  few  years  ago 
when  we  saw  George  Folsom  in  his  garden,  who  came  out 
to  speak  to  us.  I  had  known  him  intimately  for  years, 
but  his  first  remark  to  me  was: 

"Is  Mrs.  Farragut  with  you?" 

Among  my  friends  at  the  Century,  E.  S.  Nadal  is  one 
of  whom  I  am  most  fond.    He  was  born  in  Virginia,  in  Green- 



brier  County,  and  as  his  father  was  a  Methodist  clergyman, 
and  after  the  manner  of  their  clergy  had  a  new  cure  nearly 
every  year,  Nadal's  experiences  of  Virginia  life  were  un- 
usually varied.  He  has  embodied  them  in  a  most  deh'ght- 
ful  book,  "A  Virginia  Village."  He  is  a  graduate  of  Yale, 
and  was  secretary  of  legation  in  London  under  Motley  and 
Lowell  for  many  years,  and  he  has  met  many  distinguished 
people,  Lincoln  among  others,  and  his  essays  on  a  variety  of 
subjects  are  very  charming.  But  above  all  he  is  a  lovable 
man.  I  know  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  do  an  un- 
kind or  an  ungentlemanly  thing.  He  is  a  fine  judge  of  a 
horse — I  tell  him  he  is  the  only  man  I  know  who  has  suc- 
cessfully combined  horse-dealing  and  literature — and  has 
the  remarkable  faculty  of  being  able  to  sell  people  horses 
and  yet  retain  their  friendship. 

Robert  Gordon  is  one  of  the  oldest  members  of  the  Cen- 
tury Club,  which  he  joined  in  1867,  my  oldest  living  friend 
(he  is  my  daughter  Marion's  godfather),  and  one  of  the 
finest  men  I  have  ever  known.  He  came  to  this  country 
from  Scotland  in  1849  ^vhen  he  was  a  very  young  man, 
soon  becoming  a  partner  in  the  old  firm  of  Maitland  Phelps 
and  Company  of  which  I  have  already  spoken  in  connec- 
tion with  my  godfather,  Mr.  David  .\Liithind.  Gordon 
came  often  to  stay  with  us  at  Danskammer  and  ours  has 
been  a  faithful  and  uninterrupted  friendship  ever  since, 
kept  up  of  late  years  by  a  pretty  regular  correspondence. 

I  have  spoken  in  a  previous  chapter  of  the  pleasant 
artists'  receptions  that  Mr.  Gordon  gave  every  winter  while 
he  lived  in  New  York.  When  the  Astors  built  the  houses 
in  West  Thirty-third  Street  where  the  Waldorf  now  stands, 
Mr.  Gordon  moved  into  Number  i,  and  later  bought  Num- 
ber 7  East  Thirty-eighth  Street  from  Harvey  Fisk,  which 
he  remodelled  to  make  room  for  his  numerous  pictures. 



For  he  was  a  liberal  patron  of  art,  especially  of  American 
painters,  and  a  good  friend  to  the  young  and  struggling. 
I  went  once  with  him  to  George  Boughton's  studio  in  the 
old  Tenth  Street  building,  and  we  found  him  engaged  in 
painting  a  picture  which  Gordon  immediately  bought. 
Boughton  was  then  almost  unknown.  After  living  a  re- 
markably agreeable  life  here  for  thirty-five  years,  he  retired 
from  Maitland  Phelps  and  returned  to  England  to  live, 
where  he  was  immediately  sought  out  by  Mr.  Junius  S. 
Morgan,  and  induced  after  some  persuasion  to  become  a 
member  of  the  British  firm  of  J.  S.  Morgan  and  Company, 
with  whom  he  was  associated  for  fifteen  years — in  fact, 
until  he  reached  the  age  of  seventy,  which  he  had  long  be- 
fore decided  was  the  proper  age  for  a  man  to  retire.  Thence- 
forth he  settled  down  to  a  pleasant  country  life,  only  dis- 
turbed of  very  late  years  by  the  war. 

The  artists  gave  Mr.  Gordon  a  farewell  dinner  at  Del- 
monico's  before  his  return  to  England.  I  have  the  menu, 
which,  much  condensed,  runs  as  follows,  beginning  with  a 
quotation  from  Burns — 

"There  ne'er  was  a  coward  o'  Kenmure's  blude. 
Nor  yet  o'  Gordon's  line," 

and  going  on  with — 

"Prepare  your  surface  with — Huitres.  Sketch  in  the 
design  with  a  thin  wash  of^Potages.  Strengthen  the  out- 
hne  with  crisp  touches  of— Poisson.  Now  dash  in  the  lights 
boldly  with— Releve.  And  fill  up  shadows  carefully  with 
Entrees.  Glaze  the  necessary  parts  with  a  cool — Sorbet. 
Carefully  scumble  the  loaded  masses  with— Roti.  Touch 
up  the  details  and  harmonize  the  whole  composition  with 
— Sucres.     And  finally  varnish  with  a  warm  mixture  of 



cafe  and  nicotine."  A  generous  use  of  "mediums"— Cham- 
pagne, etc.— was  recommended,  and  the  whole  ended  with 
another  stanza  from  Burns,  slightly  improved 

"Where'er  he  go,  where'er  he  walk. 
May  Heaven  be  his  warden, 
Return  him  soon  to  fair  New  York, 
Our  honest  Robert  Gordon." 

Robert  Gordon  to  D.  M.  A.,  Rome 

New    York,    March,    1870. 
".  .  .     Gifford  is  now  painting  for  me  a  splendid  pic- 
ture (as  large  as  my  Mansfield  Mountain),  the  result  of 
his  recent  visit  to  Italy.     It  is  a  view  near  Tivoli,  looking 
toward  Rome,  the  town  of  Tivoli  perched  up  on  the  heights 
to  the  left,  numerous  small  streams  rushing  down  the  sides 
of  the  cliffs  into  the  river,  which  in  a  gorge  below  rushes 
off  through  a  beautiful  valley.     It  is,   I  beheve,  literally 
true  to   nature,   except  in  the  foreground,   where  a  h'ttle 
license  has  been   taken   for  artistic  effect.     McEntee  has 
not  been  quite  so  much  improved  by  his  trip  abroad  and 
I  selected  an  American  autumn  scene  in  preference  to  any 
of  his  Italian  sketches." 

22  Old  Broad  St.,  London.  9  April.  1886. 
".  .  .^  I  am  beginning  to  fmd  that  I  made  no  mistake 
in  investing  as  I  did  in  American  pictures.  They  attract 
a  great  deal  of  attention  in  my  house,  few  good  pictures 
by  Americans  having  found  their  way  to  this  side.  In  my 
dining-room,  which  is  Lirge,  I  liave  Wyant's  'Old  Clear- 
ing' over  the  fireplace,  with  GifTord's  'Tivoli'  and  'Mans- 
field Mountain'  flanking  it,  all  three  being  cleverly  lighted 
by  lamps  with  reflectors.    At  the  end  of  the  room  over  the 



sideboard  I  have  J.  G.  Brown's  'Curling'  picture  and  in 
the  centre  of  the  wall,  opposite  the  Wyant,  Ward's  *  Brit- 
tany Washerwoman,'  both  similarly  hghted.  We  had  the 
American  Minister,  Mr.  Phelps,  dining  with  us  on  Tues- 
day and  he  greatly  enjoyed  the  GifFord  and  Wyant  which 
faced  him.  I  got  a  lot  of  etchings  through  Avery  which 
I  have  had  hung  on  my  corridor  walls.  What  an  advance 
the  American  artists  have  made  in  the  art  in  a  few  years ! 
Last  Sunday  was  'Picture  Sunday'  of  the  Academicians, 
the  outsiders  having  had  the  Sunday  before,  but  I  only 
went  to  the  studio  of  Boughton  and  Cohn  Hunter.  The 
former  exhibits  in  both  the  Academy  and  Grosvenor. 

"  I  was  much  interested  in  your  detailed  report  of  your 
young  people  in  whom  you  seem  to  have  a  deal  of  com- 

Little    Park,    Brimpton,    Berks. 
24  Jan.  1915. 

*'  It  is  very  gratifying  to  all  the  better  classes  in  this  coun- 
try to  find  that  you  are  all  so  thoroughly  in  sympathy  with 
us  in  our  great  fight.  It  is  a  clear  case  of  a  *  fight  to  the 
finish.'  I  have  been  greatly  excited  over  the  part  taken 
by  the  London  Scottish. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  still  up  to  your  work 
and  doing  well  with  it.  How  delightful  to  have  an  accom- 
phshed  daughter  as  a  business  partner — it  is  an  ideal  ar- 
rangement and  you  have  reason  to  be  proud  of  your  family. 
Your  picture  of  a  'Baker's  Shop  in  Brittany'  with  an  old 
white  horse  in  the  foreground  hangs  just  behind  me  on 
the  wall  of  the  dining-room  here;  it  was  allotted  to  Mrs. 
Langford  when  the  contents  of  Breckham  Park  were  divided. 
I  kept  the  St.  Mark. 

"I  am  looking  forward  to  getting  the  annual  report 



of  the  Century  before  long.  They  call  to  mind  many  of 
my  old  friends  who  have  passed  away.  Like  CuHins  I  am 
now  one  of  the  Old  Guard,  as  I  also  am  of  the  Museum, — 
and  of  the  St.  Andrews  Society,  I  am  the  very  oldest  mem- 
ber, having  been  elected  in  1852." 

Chewton  Glcn,   i^'JuIy,  191". 

".  .  .  Your  letter  did  me  a  lot  of  good  and  cheered 
me  up  when  I  was  rather  in  the  dumps.  I  can  do  Httle  in 
the  way  of  walking,  and  petrol  can  no  longer  be  had  for 
what  they  are  pleased  to  call  'joy  riding.'  The  adhesion 
of  America  to  our  cause  has  given  immense  satisfaction 
and  for  the  moment  your  Sammies  enjoy  even  greater  pop- 
ularity than  our  Colonials. 

**I  find  myself  dwelling  a  good  deal  on  my  early  experi- 
ences in  New  York,  where  I  spent  so  many  happy  days. 
Nothing  can  ever  take  the  place  of  the  dear  old  Century, 
which  I  found  most  appreciatively  mentioned  in  an  Englisli 
book  the  other  day.  I  was  very  grieved  to  liear  of  dear 
old  Choate's  death.  I  was  never  what  you  would  call  itry 
intimate  with  him,  but  greatly  appreciated  his  high  char- 
acter and  friendly  way.  I  am  curious  to  hear  who  is  to  suc- 
ceed him  in  the  Presidency.  I  have  treasured  up  a  nice 
letter  from  him  in  which  he  employs  terms  of  real  affec- 
tion in  speaking  of  our  early  association  in  Museum 
matters.  I  am  proud  of  my  participation  in  the  start  of 
what  has  proved  a  greater  success  than  the  most  sanguine 
of  the  Founders  ever  anticipated. 

"You  are  my  oldest  friend,  our  friendship  dating  back 
from  the  time  in  1849  ^^'hen  I  entered  the  oflice  of  AL  and 
P.,  when  Gouv  was  a  clerk  there  and  got  your  mother  to 
invite  me  to  Danskanimer  for  the  iirst  time,  which  led  to 



many  other  visits.  It  is  strange  how  Danskammer  and 
its  associations  live  in  my  memory.  I  particularly  remem- 
ber one  visit  at  least  at  your  place  when  grapes  were  ripe 
and  free  picking  was  permitted. 

**  Yours  ever  affectionately, 

"Rob  Gordon." 



"The  breath  of  distant  fields  upon  my  brow 
Blows  through  that  open  door, 
The  sound  of  wind-borne  bells,  more  sweet  and  low, 
And  sadder  than  of  yore." 

— William  Wetmore  Story. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  1877  that  we  decided  to  make 
our  home  at  Danskammer;  for  though  the  old  house  built 
by  my  father  had  been  sold  while  I  was  in  Italy,  we  had 
kept  the  northern  part  of  the  place,  originally  the  old 
Bloomer  farm,  including  a  rather  nice  house — not  much 
more  than  a  farmhouse  but  beautifully  situated,  with  a  wide 
view  across  Newburgh  bay  to  the  Highlands.  The  house 
had  possibilities  and,  first  and  hist,  I  did  a  good  deal  to  it 
and  made  it  into  a  pretty  pleasant  old  place.  It  has  not  all 
been  wasted  even  now,  for,  although  the  brickyards  have 
greatly  injured  the  view,  my  son  Noel  and  his  family  live 
there  and  are  as  fond  of  it  as  I  was. 

My  early  ideas  of  decoration  seem  to  me  rather  amus- 
ing to-day;  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  tiles  and  Morris  wall- 
papers were  ever  considered  new  and  beautiful.  But,  after 
all,  Oscar  Wilde  was  right  in  averring  that  sunflowers  and 
lilies  were  more  satisfying  than  the  black  walnut  and  green 
rep  of  our  predecessors.  There  may  have  been  too  much 
of  the  aesthetic  in  these  youthful  decorations  of  mine,  but 
the  fine  old  things  I  had  brought  back  from  Italy  would 
have  made  any  house  interesting.  Anyhow,  everybody 
thought  our  little  house  was  not  only  the  latest  thing  in 



decoration  but  charming  as  well,  and  looking  back  I  con- 
fess I  think  so  too.  Later  on  I  made  more  substantial  ad- 
ditions to  it,  helped  a  good  deal  by  the  advice  of  Stanford 
White  and  McKim.  In  fact,  at  one  time  McKim  got  so 
intensely  interested  in  my  improvements  that,  being  con- 
vinced that  we  needed  a  new  and  larger  dining-room,  as 
we  certainly  did,  he  urged  me  to  let  him  lend  me  the  money 
to  build  it  and  said  he  would  ''make  me  something  quite 
stunning" — as  no  doubt  he  would  have  done  if  I  had  been 

McKim  and  I  had  lots  of  good  rides  together;  he  was 
fond  of  riding  and,  of  course,  horses  were  an  important 
feature  of  our  life  at  Danskammer.  But  I  have  talked 
more  than  enough  about  horses  already.  The  praises  of 
my  little  chestnut  mare  Madge,  with  all  her  wicked 
charms,  or  good  old  Virginius,  the  thoroughbred  that 
Robert  Gordon  gave  my  daughter  when  he  went  to  live 
in  England,  must  remain  unsung. 

Many  friendships  of  which  I  have  already  spoken  were 
revived  in  those  pleasant  Danskammer  days.  Vedder 
came  once,  and  so  did  Nevin  and  Saint  Gaudens,  and  May- 
nard  often  stayed  with  us — a  good  friend  and  a  good  painter, 
we  are  all  fond  of  him.  McKim  came  again  and  again. 
Stanford  White  and  I  had  lots  of  fun  one  time,  staining 
plaster  casts  with  tobacco  juice  and  coloring  some  por- 
trait medaHions  that  I  had  brought  from  Italy.  We  rubbed 
them  with  all  sorts  of  weird  mixtures  of  our  own  invention, 
and  waxed  them,  and  touched  them  up  with  gold,  so  that 
they  were  quite  effective. 

Saint  Gaudens  liked  our  place,  but  he  was  never  crazy 
about  violent  exercise,  and  I  remember  when,  to  see  the 
view,  we  made  him  climb  to  the  top  of  Beacon  Hill — so 
called  because  they  used  to  light  beacon  fires  there  during 



the  Revolution — he  told  us  a  story  of  a  Frenchman  who, 
after  a  similar  experience,  remarked  breathlessly  to  a 
friend : 

"Aimcz-vous  les  beautes  de  la  nature? — Moi,  je  les  ab- 
horre !" 

I  had  gone  to  Danskammer  with  the  idea  of  making 
a  hving  out  of  fruit  farming,  and  I  went  in  for  peaches  on 
quite  a  large  scale;    at  one  time  I  had  a  peach  orchard  of 
over  three  thousand  trees  and  several  acres  of  grapes.    There 
is  no  more  beautiful  crop  than   fruit.     The  great  wagon 
that  went  up  to  the  Marlborough  dock  loaded  with  baskets 
was  something  to  be  proud  of — even  the  air  along  the  road 
on  those  warm  summer  evenings  was  sweet  with  the  scent — 
and  only  those  who  have  lived  on  a  fruit  farm  know  what 
really  good  fruit  is.     When  fruit  is  absolutely  perfect  it  is 
just  a  little  too  ripe  for  shipping,  and  that  perfect  fruit  we 
used  to  eat  ourselves — such  huge  strawberries,  such  melt- 
ing peaches,  such  bunches  of  purple  and  white  grapes — I 
never  expect  to  see  their  hke  again.     But  before  long  the 
"yellows"  played  havoc  with  my  trees,  for  there  was  little 
expert  agricultural  knowledge  to  be  had  in  those  days,  and 
although,  take  it  all  in  all,  I  made  a  good  deal  of  money 
out  of  my  fruit,  I  am  incHned  to  agree  on  the  whole  with 
the  farmer  who  told  an  inquiring  friend:    "Why,  yes,  you 
can  make  money  off  a  farm — the  farther  off  the  better." 

So  after  a  while  I  took  up  the  making  of  stained-glass 
windows  in  addition  to  my  farming,  and  in  time  it  became 
my  real  lifework.  No  man  was  ever  happier  in  his  choice 
of  work;  the  years  have  gone  only  too  fast.  They  have 
been  crowded  with  hard  work  but  all  the  happier  for  that 
— I  have  always  liked  hard  work — and  for  some  years  I 
have  had  my  daughter  Helen  as  my  partner.  I  think  our 
work  together  has  been  good  work,  and  in  this,  as  in  every 


other  relation  of  our  lives,  no  two  people  have  ever  been 
happier  together  than  she  and  I. 

The  story  of  our  twenty  years  at  Danskammer  would 
be  too  long  to  tell  here  and,  I  am  afraid,  too  simple  to  in- 
terest any  one  but  ourselves.  So  we  will  leave  the  old  place 
with  a  kindly  letter  of  farewell  from  an  old  friend  who  loved 
it.  When  Doctor  Donald  wrote  in  1902  we  were  no  longer 
hving  at  Danskammer,  only  spending  a  few  weeks  there 
one  September. 

"...  Just  how  long  ago  it  is  that  I  first  saw  Dans- 
kammer, I  cannot  accurately  say.  The  first  vivid  remem- 
brance is  of  my  entering  the  library  and  being  arrested 
by  the  fire-place  mantel,  never  having  seen  its  like  or,  for 
that  matter,  its  equal.  All  else  fades  away  from  that  first 
visit.  Then  I  went  up  on  Margaret's  birthday,  in  Sep- 
tember, of  course,  and  McKim  was  there,  and  we  had  a 
picnic  on  the  Point  and  a  queer  dog — whose  name  was 
something  like  Tabbo.  Ah !  he  was  so  attractively  weird 
a  creature  that  his  name  should  live  with  that  of  George 
Bowow  or  the  Vicar  of  Morwenstow — walked  the  long 
way  round,  while  Lance — yes,  that  was  the  setter's  name 
— swam  over  the  little  bay.  And  in  the  evening  we  sang, 
McKim  and  I — and  played  games,  made  bad  verses;  and 
then  to  bed.  How  it  all  stands  out  and  how  cosy  and  snug 
and  happy  one's  venerable  memory  is  as  it  unveils  its  sim- 
ple and  beautiful  treasures. 

"Many  times  thereafter  I  went  to  Danskammer;  when 
the  sweet  peas  in  the  garden  were  at  their  best,  and  the 
cherries  were  ripe  and  when  the  grapes  were  purple  and 
perfumed.  Once,  when  the  snow  was  over  all.  Then  Alex- 
ander's big  hands  and  broad  a's — he  was  a  magnificent 
type  of  fidelity,  common  sense  and  self-respect.    And  the 



leisurely,  human,  companionable,  lively,  peaceable  bread- 
breakings  in  the  dining-room,  (my  seat  was  always  toward 
Albany).  There  were  strawberries  dropped  into  our  plates 
direct  from  the  hand  of  God,  which  never  knew  the  ex- 
haustion of  travel  or  the  impudent  soiHng  fmgers  of  grocers, 
on  which  no  price  had  ever  been  set  and — as  Maitland 
knows — no  profit  ever  made.  And  the  morning  sun  glanced 
on  the  shining  water  of  the  river  and  bounded  up  into  our 
laps.  And  the  turf  and  the  trees  whispered,  chattered  and 
slept.  We  were  the  first  folk  on  the  first  day — all  being 

"And  one  day  I  went  with  the  cliildrcn  and  stood  be- 
side the  pkice  in  the  Churchyard  where  little  Bayard  sleeps, 
and  heard  a  voice  assuring  us  of  immortality,  since  what 
has  once  really  lived  never  dies. 

"And  then  came  the  last  time — now  nine  years  ago — 
when  I  christened  Hamilton.  That  was  the  end,  I  fear. 
But  so  long  as  I  keep  a  memory  it  will  possess  dear  Dans- 
kammer,  and  the  dearer  people  who  made  it  dear  to  me. 
Happy  innocent  days !  An  old  man  thanks  God  for  them. 
And  he  puts  on  paper — just  why,  he  knows  not — his 
thoughts,  knowing  how  foohsh  they  will  seem  to-morrow 
at  Danskammer,  yet  willing  they  should  so  seem,  if  they 
shall  serve  to  keep  him  just  a  little  alive  to  the  kind  hearts 
who  watch  the  glowing  logs." 

And  so  these  memories  of  mine  come  to  an  end  where 
they  began — at  Danskammer.